
Class JLL 
Book_^j 



COPYRIGHT DEPOStn 



Bugle-Echoes 

A Collection, of 

Poems of the Civil War 

Northern a*<3 Southern 

Edited by 

Francis E Browne 




Blow; bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying 

--—Sennyson 



Chicago 



AX. McCl\irg & Co, 



F6- 



A-f 



Copyright, 1886 
By White, Stokes & Allen 



Copyright, 

A. C. McClurg & Co. 

1916 



Published August, 1916 



W. F. HAUL PRINTING COMPANY, CHICAGO 



i 6 







•SEP -I 1916 
©CI.A437503 

/ ' 






Andrew Fletcher of Saltoun, centuries ago, said: "I 
know a very wise man that believed that if a man 
were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not 
care to make the laws of a nation." This "wise 
man" accurately estimated the importance of folklore. 
If so great an honor may be conferred upon the maker, 
hardly less should be given the man who, with patient 
research, persistent industry, and rare skill, presents 
the war lyrics of a nation in such attractive and 
complete style as the late Francis Fisher Browne has 
done in his compilation of Bugle-Echoes. Mr. Browne 
was admirably fitted for this work not alone because 
of his general literary ability but because of his great 
interest in the Civil War, wherein he played his part. 

As the Editor of The Dial, which he founded and 
conducted so many years with a literary taste and criti- 
cal skill that made it an infallible authority in Book- 
land, the country over, Mr. Browne displayed rare 
critical acumen, a charming style, fine discrimination, 
judgment that seldom erred, indomitable industry 
which only ceased with his death, and a genial per- 
sonality behind a critical mask, which made him 
beloved by book-makers and book-readers everywhere. 

His own preface shows the unusual care and labor 
bestowed upon this volume of poems of the Civil War. 
It presents a history in miniature of that long struggle 
from both northern and southern viewpoints. Reading 
it, one only wishes that the same hand, forever resting 
from the loving service of a lifetime among his beloved 
books, could have done the same work for the poetry 
of the War of 1812 and of the Revolution. 

GEO. P. UPTON 
Chicago, July, 1916 



(Emttjrifrr'H Prrfar? 



This collection of Poetry of the Civil War, be- 
gun several years ago for the compiler's personal 
satisfaction, has grown in extent and interest, until 
its publication is thought to be justified by the 
demand for books relating to the war, and by the 
literary and historical value of the material. Dur- 
ing the war, and soon after, various volumes ap- 
peared, containing indiscriminate collections of 
Northern or Southern war-songs. Viewed at this 
distance, most of them seem sad stuff. In that 
stormy period, patriotic fervor was stronger than 
poetic impulse, and rude doggerel was often lifted 
into favor by a buoyant tune. War-songs, whose 
popularity was due to their music rather than their 
words, have, with very few exceptions, been ex- 
cluded from this volume. Its aim has been to pre- 
sent a body of the really notable poetry which the 
war evoked : a record of the feelings and experi- 
ences of that heroic epoch, as they were wrought 
into lyrical expression. Time enough has elapsed 
to enable the war-poems of either side to be read 
without resentment ; and hence no piece is excluded 
for its political sentiments, if it has sufficient poetic 
merit. Some pieces containing strong passages, 



(HatnpxUfB Prrfare 



which have enjoyed popular favor, are spoiled by 
their coarseness ; while others, which were thought 
" thrilling" in their time, now seem little more than 
wild cries of rage and hate. 

The two classes of poems, Northern and South- 
ern, at first intended to be placed separately in the 
volume, were finally brought together, for the suf- 
ficient reasons that their interest is thus increased, 
and in some cases it could not be determined to 
which side a piece belonged ; and, further, that as 
there is no political division between North and 
South, there should be no division in their liter- 
ature. It is hoped that nothing in this volume will 
shock the political sensibilities of anyone, least of 
all the soldiers of the war. The compiler is able 
to speak authoritatively for only one soldier ; but, 
judging by his own feelings, and by the cordial 
approval and ready aid the project has received 
from others, North and South, he believes there is 
little to be feared in this direction. Far from re- 
viving sectional animosities, these echoes of a war 
whose memory is brightened by so many heroic 
deeds, in which the national mettle was so amply 
proved and mutual respect came to succeed bitter- 
ness and hate, should serve to unite more firmly 
the bonds of a common patriotism. 

It is too much to expect that, with the large mass 
of material to select from, and the limited space of 
this volume, every reader will find here the poem 
which he seeks ; or to hope that no doubtful piece 
has been admitted. The compiler will feel satis- 



dfltttptkr'a SPrrfst? 



fied if it shall be found that he has made, on the 
whole, a reasonably good use of the space at his 
command, and given a fairly representative collec- 
tion of the war-poetry of both sections. The ar- 
rangement of pieces is in the main chronological 
according to subjects ; yet this rule is not invariable 
— pieces founded upon a particular event or period 
usually being grouped, thus affording an interesting 
study of the treatment from different standpoints. 
Wherever possible, poems have been given entire ; 
and extracts are so indicated by asterisks. The 
side whence a poem came may in most instances 
be inferred readily from its title, character, or 
author's name ; and in a few obscure cases the 
information is given in parentheses after the signa- 
tures. The Notes, which it is hoped will add to 
the interest of the volume, have aimed to present 
briefly such facts as may help to a better under- 
standing of the poems, simple dates being often 
effective for this purpose. 

The compiler wishes to make cordial acknowl- 
edgment of his obligation to various persons who 
have aided him by suggestions or material : espe- 
cially to Mr. Rossiter Johnson of New York City, 
Captain Gordon MacCabe of Virginia, Colonel 
Paul H. Hayne of Georgia, and Mrs. Sidney Lanier 
of Ealtimore. He is also indebted to the courtesy 
of many American authors and publishers for 
permission to use copyrighted matter— consent for 
which, he is gratified to state, has in no instance been 
refused. Especially to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & 



($,timpxUt*B $rrfar* 



Co. of Boston are his thanks due for their liberal 
concession of matter from their copyrighted pub- 
lications, which include the works of twelve or 
fifteen of the leading American poets ; and also to 
Messrs. Harper & Brothers, Messrs. D. Appleton 
& Co., and Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, of 
New York City, and the J. B. Lippincott Co. of 
Philadelphia, for like favors. 

F. F. B. 



Chicago, March, »886. 



(gutfte to 



PAGE 

Abraham Lincoln .... Richard Henry Stoddard 282 

Abraham Lincoln Henry Howell Brownell 292 

After All William Winter 203 

Alabama, The Maurice Bell 224 

Allen, Elizabeth Akers 

Spring at the Capital 95 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey 

By the Potomac 179 

Fredericksburg 144 

All Quiet Along the Potomac . . Ethel Lynn Beers 67 
Alston, Joseph Blynth 

"Stack Arms !" 276 

American People, To the Bayard Taylor 40 

Apocalypse Richard Realf 3 1 

Ashby John R. Thompson 88 

"Ashes of Glory" A. J. Requier 277 

At Gettysburg Anonymous 192 

At Port Royal John Greenleaf Whittier 97 

Band of the Pines, The John Esten Cooke 159 

Barbara Frietchie. . . .John Greenleaf Whittier 124 

Barefooted Boys, The Anonymous, 91 

Bartleson, F. A. 

New Year's Eve 207 

Battle Autumn of 1862, The 

John Greenleaf Whittier 136 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic . Julia Ward Howe 66 

Battle in the Clouds, The. .William D. Howells 202 

Battle of Charleston Harbor, The 

Paul H. Hayne 161 

Bay Fight, The Henry Howard Brownell 226 

Beat! Beat! Drums! Walt Whitman 13 



$atm& att& Authors 



PAGE 

Beers, Ethel Lynn 

All Quiet Along the Potomac 67 

Bell, Maurice 

The Alabama 224 

Bethel A, J. H. Duganne 47 

Beyond the Potomac Paul H. Hayne 122 

Bivouac in the Snow, The. Margaret J. Preston 143 

Bivouac on a Mountain Side... Walt Whitman 241 

Black Regiment, The George H. Boker 170 

Blue and the Gray, The.. Francis Miles Finch 327 
Boker, George H. 

Dirge for a Soldier 109 

The Black Regiment 170 

Bonnie Blue Flag, The 

Annie Chambers Ketchum 39 

Boston Hymn Ralph Waldo Emerson 148 

Boy Brittan Forceythe Willson 74 

Brave at Home, The.. Thomas Buchanan Read 73 

"Brigade Must Not Know, Sir, The" 

J. W. Palmer 168 
Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister Caroline 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 21 
Browne, Francis F. 

Vanquished 309 

Brownell, Henry Howard 

Abraham Lincoln 292 

The Bay Fight 226 

The River Fight 81 

Bruns, John Dickson 

Our Christmas Hymn 204 

The Foe at the Gates 272 

Bryant, William Cullen 

My Autumn Walk 251 

Not Yet 135 

Our Country's Call 14 

Burial of Latane, The John R. Thompson 114 

Burroughs, Alethea S. 

Savannah 271 



•parous attii Atttfjara 



PAGE 
BUTTERWORTH, HeZEKIAH 

By Chickamauga River 200 

By Chickamauga River. .Hezekiah Butterworth 200 
Byers, Samuel H. M. 

Sherman's March to the Sea. . .' 267 

By the Potomac Thomas Bailey Aldrich 179 

Captain's Wife, The Theodore Tilton 1 1 7 

Carolina Henry Timrod 101 

Cary, Phozbe 

Ready 157 

Cavalry Charge, The Benjamin F. Taylor 246 

Cavalry Charge, The Francis A. Durivage 244 

Cavalry Song Edmund Clarence Stedman 248 

Charge by the Ford, The. Thomas Dunn English 247 

Charleston Henry Timrod 160 

Christmas Night of '62.. W. Gordon MacCabe 146 

Claribel's Prayer M. L. Parmelee 129 

Clouds in the West A. J. Requier 139 

Come up from the Fields, Father 

Walt Whitman 133 

Comrades Known in Marches Many 

Charles G. Halpine 312 

Conquered Banner, The Abram J. Ryan 278 

Cook, Theodore P. 

Ode for Decoration-Day 325 

Cooke, John Esten 

The Band in the Pines 159 

Countersign, The Anonymous 71 

Cry to Arms, A Henry Timrod 16 

Cumberland, The 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 80 
Cutler, Elbridge Jefferson 

The Volunteer 113 

Dead Cannoneer, The James R. Randall 158 

Death of Lyon, The Anonymous 52 

Death of Stonewall Jackson Harry L. Flash 167 

Dirge, A Richard Henry Stoddard 315 

Dirge for a Soldier George H. Boker 109 



gfawtui attJi Attitjara 



PAGE 

Dixie Albert Pike 34 

Downing, Fanny 

Prometheus Vinctus 305 

Driving Home the Cows 

Kate Putnam Osgood 213 
Duganne, A. J. H. 

Bethel 47 

Durivage, Francis A. 

The Cavalry Charge 244 

Enlisted To-Day Anonymous 45 

Ethiopia Saluting the Colors .. Walt Whitman 270 
Emerson, Ralph Waldo 

Boston Hymn 148 

English, Thomas Dunn 

The Charge by the Ford 247 

Fancy Shot, The Charles Dawson Shanly 70 

Finch, Francis Miles 

The Blue and the Gray 327 

Flag of Truce Amanda T. Jones 274 

Flash, Harry L. 

Death of Stonewall Jackson 167 

Foe at the Gates, The John Dickson Bruns 272 

Fredericksburg Thomas Bailey Aldrich 144 

Gallagher, W. D. 

Move on the Columns 54 

Georgia Volunteer, A.. Mary Ashley Townsend 177 

General Albert Sidney Johnston . . Mary Jervey 79 

Gettysburg Edmund Clarence Stedman 186 

God Save the Nation! Theodore Tilton 65 

"Gone Forward" Margaret J. Preston 308 

Halpine, Charles Graham 

Comrades Known in Marches Many 312 

Song of Sherman's Army 268 

The Thousand and Thirty-Seven 212 

Harney, Will Wallace 

Running the Blockade 219 

Harte, Bret 

"How are You, Sanitary ?" 185 



Po?m0 attb AittlforH 



PAGE 

John Burns of Gettysburg 194 

Our Privilege 112 

Second Review of the Grand Army 310 

The Reveille 29 

Hayne, Paul Hamilton 

Beyond the Potomac 122 

Heroes of the South 319 

The Battle of Charleston Harbor 161 

Heart of the War, The J. G. Holland 126 

"He'll See It when He Wakes" Frank Lee 175 

Heroes of the South Paul H. Hayne 319 

Hickox, Chauncey 

Killed at Fredericksburg 144 

Holland, Josiah Gilbert 

The Heart of the War 126 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell 

Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister 

Caroline 21 

Never or Now 138 

Voyage of the Good Ship Union 103 

Hope, James Barron 

The Oath of Freedom 28 

Hopes of Man, The Joseph O'Connor 64 

"How are You, Sanitary?" Bret Harte 185 

Howe, Julia Ward 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic 66 

Howells, William Dean 

The Battle in the Clouds 202 

Hymn for Memorial-Day Henry Timrod 321 

Hymn of the Mothers of Our Volunteers 

Horatio N. Powers 253 

In Memory Richard Realf 313 

In State Forceythe Willson 59 

In the Land where we were Dreaming 

D. B. Lucas 280 

Jervey, Mary 

General Albert Sidney Johnston 79 

John Burns of Gettysburg Bret Harte 194 



Pfltttta anil AutfatB 



PAGE 

Johnson, Rossiter 

A Woman of the War 258 

Jones, Amanda T. 

Flag of Truce 274 

The Prophecy of the Dead 26 

Kearney at Seven Pines 

Edmund Clarence Stedman 107 

Keenan's Charge George Parsons Lathrop 165 

Ketchum, Annie Chambers 

The Bonnie Blue Flag 39 

Killed at Fredericksburg. .. .Chauncey Hickox 144 

Killed at the Ford 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 116 
La Coste, Maria 

Somebody's Darling 174 

Lanier, Sidney 

The Tournament 328 

Larcom, Lucy 

The Nineteenth of April 36 

Last Regiment, The Joaquin Miller 261 

Lathrop, George Parsons 

Keenan's Charge 165 

Lee Frank 

'"He'll See It when He Wakes" 175 

Lee to the Rear John R. Thompson 216 

Lines from "Commemoration Ode" 

James R. Lowell 316 
Little Giffen of Tennessee. .Francis O. Ticknor 78 
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth 

A Nameless Grave 172 

Killed at the Ford 116 

The Cumberland 80 

Lowell, James Russell 

Lines from "Commemoration Ode" 316 

The Washers of the Shroud 56 

Lucas, Daniel B. 

In the Land where we were Dreaming. . . . 280 
Lushington, Franklin 

No More Words 17 



•potttti? atti* Authors 



PAGE 

MacCabe, W. Gordon 

Christmas Night of '62 146 

Malvern Hill Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 110 

Manassas Catherine M. Warfield 51 

Men of the North and West 

Richard Henry Stoddard 22 
Miller, Joaquin 

The Last Regiment 261 

Missing Anonymous 173 

Move on the Columns ! W. D. Gallagher 54 

Music in Camp John R. Thompson 182 

My Autumn Walk William Cullen Bryant 251 

My Maryland James R. Randall 23 

Nameless Grave, A 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 172 

Never or Now Oliver Wendell Holmes 138 

New Year's Eve F. A. Bartleson 207 

Nineteenth of April, The Lucy Larcom 36 

No More Words ! Franklin Lushington 17 

Not Yet William Cullen Bryant 135 

Oath of Freedom, The James Barron Hope 28 

Obsequies of Stuart John R. Thompson 209 

O Captain ! my Captain ! Walt Whitman 291 

O'Connor, Joseph 

The Hopes of Man 64 

O'Connor, Michael 

Reveille 92 

Ode for Decoration-Day Henry Peterson 322 

Ode for Decoration-Day Theodore P. Cook 325 

Old Sergeant, The Forceythe Willson 1 5 1 

Only a Private Margaret J. Preston 69 

Osgood, Kate Putnam 

Driving Home the Cows 213 

Our Christmas Hymn John Dickson Bruns 204 

Our Country's Call William Cullen Bryant 14 

"Our Left" Francis O. Ticknor 1 1 9 

Our Privilege Bret Harte 112 



ffiflgmg attft Atttlyorg 



PAGE 

Palmer, J. W. 

Stonewall Jackson's Way 89 

"The Brigade Must Not Know, Sir !" 168 

Parmelee, M. L. 

Claribel's Prayer 129 

Peterson, Henry 

Ode for Decoration-Day 322 

Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart 

Malvern Hill 110 

"Picciola" Anonymous 131 

Pike, Albert 

Dixie 34 

Porter, Ina Marie 

"Shot through the Heart" 263 

Powers, Horatio Nelson 

Hymn of the Mothers of our Volunteers.. 253 

Preston, Margaret J. 

"Gone Forward" 308 

Only a Private 69 

The Bivouac in the Snow 143 

Under the Shade of the Trees 169 

Proctor, Edna Dean 

The Stripes and the Stars 38 

Prometheus Vinctus Fanny Downing 305 

Prophecy of the Dead, The. .Amanda T. Jones 26 

Randall, James R. 

My Maryland 23 

The Dead Cannoneer 158 

Read, Thomas Buchanan 

Sheridan's Ride 242 

The Brave at Home 73 

Reading the List Anonymous 197 

Ready Phoebe Cary 157 

Realf, Richard 

Apocalypse 31 

In Memory 313 

Requier, A. J. 

"Ashes of Glory" 277 

Clouds in the West 139 

Reveille, The Bret Harte 29 



Jfrmtt* and Attilpra 



PAGE 

Reveille Michael O'Connor 92 

River Fight, The Henry Howard Brownell 81 

Roll-Call N. G. Shepherd 198 

Running the Blockade. . .Will Wallace Harney 219 
Ryan, Abram J. 

The Conquered Banner 278 

Savannah Alethea S. Burroughs 271 

Scott and the Veteran Bayard Taylor 43 

Second Review of the Grand Army. Bret Harte 310 
Shanly, Charles Dawson 

The Fancy Shot 70 

Shepherd, N. G. 

Roll-Call 198 

Sheridan's Ride Thomas Buchanan Read 242 

Sherman's March to the Sea 

Samuel H. M. Byers 267 
Sherwood, Kate Brownlee 

Ulric Dahlgren 208 

"Shot Through the Heart"... Ina Marie Porter 263 

Silent March, The Anonymous 215 

Somebody's Darling Maria La Coste 174 

Song of Sherman's Army. .Charles G. Halpine 268 

Spring at the Capital .. Elizabeth Akers Allen 95 

Spring in War-Time Henry Timrod 93 

"Stack Arms!" Joseph Blynth Alston 276 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence 

Cavalry Song 248 

Gettysburg 186 

Kearney at Seven Pines 107 

Sumter 19 

Wanted— A Man 120 

Stoddard, Richard Henry 

Abraham Lincoln 282 

A Dirge 315 

Men of the North and West 22 

Twilight on Sumter 164 

Stonewall Jackson's Way J. W. Palmer 89 

Stripes and the Stars, The. Edna Dean Proctor 38 



Itoma mth AittijnrH 



Sumter Edmund Clarence Stedman 

Taylor, Bayard 

To the American People 


PAGE 

19 
40 




43 


Taylor, Benjamin F. 

The Cavalry Charge 


246 


Thompson, John R. 

Ashby 


88 


A Word with the West 

Lee to the Rear 


140 
216 



Music in Camp 182 

Obsequies of Stuart 209 

The Burial of Latane 114 

Thousand and Thirty-Seven, The 

Charles G. Halpine 212 

Three Hundred Thousand More. . .Anonymous 111 

Ticknor, Francis O. 

Little Giffen of Tennessee 78 

"Our Left" 119 

The Virginians of the Valley 106 

Tilton, Theodore 

God Save the Nation 65 

The Captain's Wife 117 

Timrod, Henry 

A Cry to Arms 16 

Carolina 101 

Charleston . 160 

Hymn for Decoration-Day 321 

Spring in War-Time 93 

Tournament, The Sidney Lanier 328 

Townsend, Mary Ashley 

A Georgia Volunteer 177 

Twilight on Sumter .. Richard Henry Stoddard 164 

Two Furrows, The C. H. Webb 41 

Ulric Dahlgren Kate Brownlee Sherwood 208 

Under the Cloud and Through the Sea 

A. T. Whitney 30 

Under the Shade of the Trees 

Margaret J. Preston 169 

Vanquished Francis F. Browne 309 



Poms anfc Auiljnrfl 



PAGE 

Virginians of the Valley, The 

Francis O. Tickrior 106 

Voices of the Guns, The Anonymous 179 

Volunteer, The Elbridge Jefferson Cutler 113 

Voyage of the Good Ship Union 

Oliver W. Holmes 103 

Wanted — A Man.. Edmund Clarence Stedman 120 

Warfield, Catherine M. 

Manassas 51 

Washers of the Shroud, The 

James Russell Lowell 56 

Watchers, The John Greenleaf Whittier 249 

Webb, C. H. 

The Two Furrows 41 

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd. . . 

Walt Whitman 287 

Whitman, Walt 

Beat ! Beat ! Drums ! 13 

Bivouac on a Mountain Side 241 

Come up from the Fields, Father 133 

Ethiopia Saluting the Colors 270 

O Captain ! My Captain ! 291 

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd 287 

Whitney, Adeline D. T. 

"Under the Cloud and Through the Sea" 30 

Whittier, John Greenleaf 

At Port Royal 97 

Barbara Frietchie 124 

The Battle Autumn of 1862 136 

The Watchers 249 

WlLLSON, FORCEYTHE 

Boy Brittan 74 

In State 59 

The Old Sergeant 151 

Winter, William 

After All 203 

Woman of the War, A Rossiter Johnson 258 

Woman's War Mission Anonymous 255 

Word with the West, A John R. Thompson 140 



Across the years full rounded to a score 

Since Peace advancing with her olive wand 
Restored the sunshine to our desolate land, 

Come thronging back the memories of War : 

Again the drums beat and the cannons roar. 
And patriot fires by every breeze are fanned, 
And pulses quicken with a purpose grand 

As manhood 's forces swell to larger store. 

Again the camp, the field, the march, the strife^ 
The joy of victory, the bitter pain 

Of wounds or sore defeat ; the anguish rife 
In tears that fall for the unnumbered slain, 

And homes where darkened is the light of life* 
All these the echoing bugle brings again. 

March. 1886. 



Uugk-IErfjwa 



BEAT ! BEAT ! DRUMS ! 

Beat ! beat ! drums ! — blow ! bugles ! blow! 

Through the windows — through doors — burst like 
a ruthless force, 

Into the solemn church, and scatter the congrega- 
tion, 

Into the school where the scholar is studying ; 

Leave not the bridegroom quiet — no happiness 
must he have now with his bride, 

Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his 
field or gathering his grain, 

So fierce you whir and pound, you drums — so 
shrill you bugles blow. 

Beat ! beat ! drums ! — blow ! bugles ! blow ! 
Over the traffic of cities — over the rumble of wheels 

in the streets ; 
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the 

houses ? no sleepers must sleep in those beds, 
No bargainers' bargains by day — no brokers or 

speculators — would they continue ? 
Would the talkers be talking ? — would the singer 

attempt to sing ? 
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case 

before the judge ? 
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums — you bugles 

wilder blow. 



14 Ifoglg-jErfrflgg 



Beat ! beat ! drums ! — blow ! bugles ! blow ! 

Make no parley — stop for no expostulation, 

Mind not the timid — mind not the weeper or 

prayer, 
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, 
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's 

entreaties, 
Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they 

lie awaiting the hearses, 
So strong you thump, O terrible drums — so loud 

you bugles blow. 

Walt Whitman. 



OUR COUNTRY'S CALL. 

Lay down the axe, fling by the spade ; 

Leave in its track the toiling plough ; 
The rifle and the bayonet-blade 

For arms like yours were fitter now ; 
And let the hands that ply the pen 

Quit the light task, and learn to wield 
The horseman's crooked brand, and rein 

The charger on the battle-field. 

Our country calls ; away ! away ! 

To where the blood-stream blots the green ; 
Strike to defend the gentlest sway 

That Time in all his course has seen. 
See, from a thousand coverts — see 

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track j 
They rush to smite her down, and we 

Must beat the banded traitors back. 

Ho ! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, 

And moved as soon to fear and flight, 

Men of the glade and forest ! leave 
Your woodcraft for the field of fight. 



Sttgle-iErlnies is 



The arms that wield the axe must pour 

An iron tempest on the foe ; 
His serried ranks shall reel before 

The arm that lays the panther low. 
And ye who breast the mountain storm 

By grassy steep or highland lake, 
Come, for the land ye love, to form 

A bulwark that no foe can break. 
Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock 

The whirlwind ; stand in her defence : 
The blast as soon shall move the rock, 

As rushing squadrons bear ye thence. 
And ye whose homes are by her grand 

Swift rivers, rising far away, 
Come from the depth of her green land 

As mighty in your march as they ; 
As terrible as when the rains 

Have swelled them over bank and bourne, 
With sudden floods to drown the plains 

And sweep along the woods uptorn. 
And ye who throng beside the deep, 

Her ports and hamlets of the strand, 
In number like the waves that leap 

On his long-murmuring marge of sand, 
Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim, 

He rises, all his floods to pour, 
And flings the proudest barks that swim, 

A helpless wreck against his shore. 

Few, few were they whose swords of old 

Won the fair land in which we dwell ; 
But we are many, we who hold 

The grim resolve to guard it well. 
Strike for that broad and goodly land, 

Blow after blow, till men shall see 
That Might and Right move hand in hand, 

And glorious must their triumph be. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



15 jgttglg-JErtjflgfi 



A CRY TO ARMS. 

Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side J 

Ho, dwellers in the vales ! 
Ho, ye who by the chafing tide 

Have roughened in the gales ! 
Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, 

Lay by the bloodless spade ; 
Let desk and case and counter rot, 

And burn your books of trade ! 

The despot roves your fairest lands ; 

And till he flies or fears, 
Your fields must grow but armed bands, 

Your sheaves be sheaves of spears ! 
Give up to mildew and to rust 

The useless tools of gain, 
And feed your country's sacred dust 

With floods of crimson rain ! 

Come with the weapons at your call — 

With musket, pike, or knife ; 
He wields the deadliest blade of all 

Who lightest holds his life. 
The arm that drives its unbought blows 

With all a patriot's scorn, 
Might brain a tyrant with a rose 

Or stab him with a thorn. 

Does any falter ? let him turn 

To some brave maiden's eyes, 
And catch the holy fires that burn 

In those sublunar skies. 
Oh, could you like your women feel, 

And in their spirit march, 
A day might see your lines of steel 

Beneath the victor's arch ! 

What hope, O God ! would not grow warm 
When thoughts like these give cheer ? 



®U0fr-3;d}0?0 17 



The lily calmly braves the storm, 
And shall the palm-tree fear ? 

No ! rather let its branches court 
The rack that sweeps the plain ; 

And from the lily's regal port 
Learn how to breast the strain. 

Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side! 

Ho, dwellers in the vales ! 
Ho, ye who by the roaring tide 

Have roughened in the gales ! 
Come, flocking gayly to the fight, 

From forest, hill, and lake ; 
We battle for our country's right 

And for the lily's sake ! 

Henry Timrod. 



NO MORE WORDS ! 
[Boston, April, 1861.] 

No more words ; 

Try it with your swords ! 
Try it with the arms of your bravest and your best ! 
You are proud of your manhood, now put it to the 
test; 

Not another word ; 

Try it by the sword ! 

No more notes ; 
Try it by the throats 
Of the cannon that will roar till the earth and air be 

shaken ; 
For they speak what they mean, and they cannot be 
mistaken ; 

No more doubt ; 
Come — fight it out ! 



ib jgttglg-JErfrggjg 



No child's play ! 

Waste not a day ; 
Serve out the deadliest weapons that you know ; 
Let them pitilessly hail on the faces of the foe ; 

No blind strife ; 

Waste not one life. 

You that in the front 
Bear the battle's brunt — 
When the sun gleams at dawn on the bayonets 

abreast, 
Remember 'tis for government and country you 
contest ; 

For love of all you guard, 
Stand, and strike hard ! 

You at home that stay 
From danger far away, 
Leave not a jot to chance, while you rest in quiet 

ease ; 
Quick ! forge the bolts of death ; quick ! ship them 
o'er the seas ; 

If War's feet are lame, 
Yours will be the blame. 

You, my lads, abroad, 
" Steady !" be your word ; 
You, at home, be the anchor of your soldiers young 

and brave ; 
Spare no cost, none is lost, that may strengthen or 
may save ; 

Sloth were sin and shame ; 
Now play out the game ! 

Franklin Lushington. 



Ilugl*-&lpi*0 la 



SUMTER. 

[On the 12th of April, 1861, Fort Sumter, in Charleston 
Harbor, South Carolina, garrisoned by United States 
troops, was bombarded by the Confederate forces, and, after 
resistingfor thirty-four hours, capitulated. This was the 
first battle of the war. ] 

Came the morning of that day 
When the God to whom we pray 
Gave the soul of Henry Clay 

To the land ; 
How we loved him, living, dying ! 
But his birthday banners flying 
Saw us asking and replying 

Hand to hand. 

For we knew that far away, 
Round the fort in Charleston Bay, 
Hung the dark impending fray, 

Soon to fall ; 
And that Sumter's brave defender 
Had the summons to surrender 
Seventy loyal hearts and tender — 

(Those were all !) 

And we knew the April sun 
Lit the length of many a gun — ■ 
Hosts of batteries to the one 

Island crag ; 
Guns and mortars grimly frowning, 
Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning, 
And ten thousand men disowning 

The old flag. 

Oh, the fury of the fight 
Even then was at its height ! 
Yet no breath, from noon till night. 
Reached us here ; 



20 SwjWErffnas 



We had almost ceased to wonder, 
And the day had faded under, 
When the echo of the thunder 
Filled each ear ! 

Then our hearts more fiercely beat, 
As we crowded on the street, 
Hot to gather and repeat 

All the tale ; 
All the doubtful chances turning, 
Till our souls with shame were burning, 
As if twice our bitter yearning 

Could avail ! 

Who had fired the earliest gun ? 
Was the fort by traitors won ? 
Was there succor ? What was done 

Who could know ? 
And once more our thoughts would wander 
To the gallant lone commander, 
On his battered ramparts grander 

Than the foe. 

Not too long the brave shall wait ; 
On their own heads be their fate, 
Who against the hallowed State 

Dare begin ; 
Flag defied and compact riven ! 
In the record of high Heaven 
How shall Southern men be shriven 

For the sin ! 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



luglg-jErfrogg 2i 



BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR 
SISTER CAROLINE. 

She has gone — she has left us in passion and 

pride — 
Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side ! 
She has torn her own star from our firmament's 

glow, 
And turned on her brother the face of a foe ! 

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, 

We can never forget that our hearts have been 

one, — 
Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name, 
From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame ! 

You were always too ready to fire at a touch ; 

But we said, " She is hasty — she does not mean 
much." 

We have scowled, when you uttered some turbulent 
threat ; 

But Friendship still whispered, " Forgive and for- 
get !" 

Has our love all died out ? Have its altars grown 
cold? 

Has the curse come at last which the fathers fore- 
told? 

Then Nature must teach us the strength of the 
chain 

That her petulant children would sever in vain. 

They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with 

their spoil, 
Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil, 
Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from 

their caves, 
And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the 

waves : 



22 Suglg-JErfjflgH 



In vain is the strife ! When its fury is past, 
Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last, 
As the torrents that rush from the mountains of 

snow 
Roll mingled in peace through the valleys below. 

Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky : 

Man breaks not the medal, when God cuts the 

die! 
Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with 

steel, 
The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal ! 

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, 
There are battles with Fate that can never be won ! 
The star-flowering banner must never be furled, 
For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world ! 

Go, then, our rash sister ! afar and aloof, 
Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof ; 
But when your heart aches and your feet have 

grown sore, 
Remember the pathway that leads to our door ! 
Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



MEN OF THE NORTH AND WEST. 

Men of the North and West, 

Wake in your might, 
Prepare, as the rebels have done, 

For the fight ! 
You cannot shrink from the test ; 
Rise ! Men of the North and West ! 

They have torn down your banner of stars ; 
They have trampled the laws ; 



l«gk-&IjOW 23 



They have stifled the freedom they hate, 

For no cause ! 
Do you love it or slavery best ? 
Speak ! Men of the North and West ! 

They strike at the life of the State : 

Shall the murder be done ? 
They cry, " We are two !" And you ? 

" We are one /" 
You must meet them, then, breast to breast ; 
On ! Men of the North and West ! 

Not with words ; they laugh them to scorn, 

And tears they despise ; 
But with swords in your hands, and death 

In your eyes ! 
Strike home ! leave to God all the rest ; 
Strike ! Men of the North and West ! 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 



MY MARYLAND. 

[This poem is probably the most famous ; as it is the most 
stirring in its martial tone, of all that the war evoked. 
Its form is doubtless suggested by Mangan's " Karamanian 
Exile": 

** I see thee ever in my dreams ; 

Karaman ! 
Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams , 

Karaman, O Karaman! 
As when thy gold-bright morning gleams ', 
As when the deepening sunset seams 
With lines of light thy hills and streams^ 

Karaman ! 
So now thou loomest on my dreams, 

Karaman, O Karaman /" 

But the previous use of this form, which is remarkably 
effective for a battle-lyric ', in no wise detracts from the 



24 15tt0i£-|;r!j0fl0i 



merits of Mr. Randal? ' s fine poem. From his editcrial 
desk in Augusta, Georgia, he has sen 1 a corrected version 
of " My Maryland" with these interesting particulars of 
its history: " In 1860-61 he who pens these lines was, 
though very young, a professor at Poydras College, upon the 
Fausse Riviere of Louisiana. There, a stripling, just from 
college in Maryland, full of poetry and romance, he dreamed 
dreams, and was only awakened by the guns of Sumter. 
At an old wooden desk, in a second-story room of Poydras 
College, one sleepless April night in 1861, the poem of ' My 
Maryland' was written. . . . And now the desk is ashes, and 
the building too I " The poem first appeared in the New 
Orleans £>elta.] 

The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge the patriotic gore 
That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle queen of yore, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My Mother State, to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life or death, for woe or weal, 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal, 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland ! 
Remember Carroll's sacred trust, 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust, 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

Maryland, my Maryland I 



Sugk-SrljoeH ^ 



Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 

Maryland ! 
Come with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, 
With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain, 
" Sic semper ! " 'tis the proud refrain 
That baffles minions back amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong.. 

Maryland ! 
Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 

Maryland ! 
Come to thine own heroic throng 
Stalking with Liberty along, 
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland ! 
But lo ! there surges forth a shriek, 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 
Maryland ! 



26 Itagte-lErfpitB 



Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Better the fire upon thee roll, 
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

I hear the distant thunder-hum, 

Maryland ! 
The " Old Line's " bugle, fife, and drum, 

Maryland ! 
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb ; 
Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum — 
She breathes ! She burns ! She'll come ! She'll come ! 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

James R. Randall. 



THE PROPHECY OF THE DEAD. 
[April, 1861.] 

Is the groaning earth stabbed to its core ? 

Are the seas oozing blood in their bed ? 
Have all troubles of ages before 

Grown quick in those homes of the dead r 
The red plagues of yore — 

Must they to our season be wed ? 

We thought the volcano of War 

Would belch out its flames in the East ; 

We knew where the winds were ajar 
With the quarrel of soldier and priest ; 

We shuddered — though far — 
To think how the vultures might feast. 

We said, " We have Liberty's smile : 
Go to ! we are safe in the West !" 



Sttglg-iErfrflgii 2r 



But the plague-spot was on us the while, 
And the serpent was warm in our breast : 

We can no more revile — 
The ox is for sacrifice dressed. 

Do ye hear, O ye Dead, in your tombs — 
Ye Dead, whose bold blows made us free — 

Do ye hear the reveille of drums ? 
Can ye say what the issue shall be ? 
Past the midnight that comes, 
Is the noon rising up from the sea ? 

Who whispered ? Is life underneath 

Astir in the dust of the brave ? 
For there steals to my ear such a breath 

As can only steal out of the grave : 
" Ye must go down to death : 

Ye have drunk of the blood of the slave." 

We have sinned, we have sinned, O ye Dead ! 

Our fields with the out-crying blood 
Of Abel, our brother, are fed : 

Must we therefore be drowned in the flood ? 
Waits no Ararat's head ? 

Is no ark guided there by our God ? 

" Ye must go down to death : have ye heard 
The tale of the writings of yore — 

How One in the sepulchre stirred, 

And cast off the grave-clothes he wore ? 

In the flesh dwelt the Word — 
Inheriting life evermore. 

" When the foes of the nation have pressed 

To its lips the sponge reeking in gall ; 
When the spear has gone into its breast, 
And the skies have been rent by its call ; 

It shall rise from its rest : 
It shall rise and shall rule over all." 

Amanda T. Jones. 



2fl gfaglg-jErfrflgg 



THE OATH OF FREEDOM. 

Born free, thus we resolve to live : 

By Heaven, we will be free ! 
By all the stars which burn on high — 
By the green earth — the mighty sea — 
By God's unshaken majesty, 
We will be free or die ! 
Then let the drums all roll ! 
Let all the trumpets blow ! 
Mind, heart, and soul, 
We spurn control 
Attempted by a foe ! 

Born free, thus we resolve to live : 

By Heaven, we will be free ! 
And, vainly now the Northmen try 
To beat us down — in arms we stand 
To strike for this our native land ! 
We will be free or die ! 

Then let the drums all roll ! 

Born free, we thus resolve to live : 
By Heaven, we will be free ! 

Our wives and children look on high, 

Pray God to smile upon the right ! 

And bid us in the deadly fight 
As freemen live or die ! 

Then let the drums all roll ! 

Born free, thus we resolve to live : 
By Heaven, we will be free ! 

And ere we cease this battle-cry, 

Be all our blood, our kindred's spilt, 

On bayonet or sabre hilt ! 
We will be free or die ! 

Then let the drums all roll ! 



IJugk-iErljrflttJ 20 



Born free, thus we resolve to live : 

By Heaven, we will be free ! 
Defiant let the banners fly, 
Shake out their glories to the air, 
And, kneeling, brothers, let us swear 

We will be free or die ! 

Then let the drums all roll ! 

Born free, thus we resolve to live : 

By Heaven, we will be free ! 
And to this oath the dead reply — 
Our valiant fathers' sacred ghosts — 
These with us, and the God of hosts, 
"We will be free or die ! 

Then let the drums all roll ! 

James Barron Hope. 



THE REVEILLE. 

Hark ! I hear the tramp of thousands, 

And of armed men the hum ; 
Lo ! a nation's hosts have gathered 
Round the quick alarming drum — 
Saying, " Come, 
Freemen, come ! 
Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick alarm- 
ing drum. 

" Let me of my heart take counsel : 
War is not of life the sum ; 
Who shall stay and reap the harvest 
When the autumn days shall come ?" 
But the drum 
Echoed, " Come ! 
Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the 
solemn-sounding drum. 



liwjk-iErfjOflB 



* But when won the coming battle, 
What of profit springs therefrom ? 
What if conquest, subjugation, 
Even greater ills become?" 
But the drum 
Answered, " Come ! 
You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee- 
answering drum. 

" What if, 'mid the cannon's thunder, 
Whistling shot and bursting bomb, 
When my brothers fall around me, 
Should my heart grow cold and numb ?" 
But the drum 
Answered, " Come ! 
Better there in death united than in life a recreant 



— come 



Thus they answered — hoping, fearing, 

Some in faith, and doubting some, 
Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, 
Said, " My chosen people, come !" 
Then the drum, 
Lo ! was dumb ; 
For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, 
answered, " Lord, we come !" 

Bret Harte. 



" UNDER THE CLOUD AND THROUGH THE 

SEA." 
So moved they when false Pharaoh's legion prest, 

Chariots and horsemen following furiously, — 
Sons of old Israel, at their God's behest, 

Under the cloud and through the swelling sea. 

So passed they, fearless, where the parted wave, 
With cloven crest uprearing from the sand, — 



!u0l*-3;rfHtt0 31 



A solemn aisle before — behind, a grave, — 
Rolled to the beckoning of Jehovah's hand. 

And Jordan raged along his rocky bed, 

And Amorite spears flashed keen and fearfully : 

Still the same pathway must their footsteps tread, 
Under the cloud and through the threatening sea. 

God works no otherwise. No mighty birth 
But comes by throes of mortal agony ; 

No man-child among nations of the earth 
But findeth baptism in a stormy sea. 

Sons of the Saints who faced their Jordan-flood 
In fierce Atlantic's unretreating wave, — 

Who by the Red Sea of their glorious blood 

Reached to the Freedom that your blood shall 
save, — 

O countrymen ! God's day is not yet done ; 

He leaveth not His people utterly ; — 
Count it a covenant that He leads us on, 

Beneath the Cloud and through the crimson Sea ! 
Adeline D. T. Whitney. 



APOCALYPSE. 

[ Written in memory of Private Luther C. Ladd, killed 
by a mob which attacked his regiment, the Sixth Massa- 
chusetts, while passing through Baltimore on the way to 
Washington, April 19, 1861 : the first life lost in the war.] 

Straight to his heart the bullet crushed ; 
Down from his breast the red blood gushed, 
And o'er his face a glory rushed. 

A sudden spasm shook his frame, 
And in his ears there went and came 
A sound as of devouring flame, 

Which in a moment ceased, and then 
The great light clasped his brows again, 
So that they shone like Stephen's when 



32 ?8ttglg-l;rfrflgB 



Saul stood apart a little space 

And shook with shuddering awe to trace 

God's splendors settling o'er his face. 

Thus, like a king, erect in pride, 

Raising clean hands toward heaven, he cried, 

" All hail the Stars and Stripes !" and died — 

Died grandly. But before he fell, 
( O blessedness ineffable ! ) 
Vision apocalyptical 

Was granted to him, and his eyes 
All radiant with glad surprise 
Looked forward through the centuries, 

And saw the seeds which sages cast 
In the world's soil in cycles past 
Spring up and blossom at the last. 

Saw how the souls of men had grown, 
And where the scythes of Truth had mown 
Clear space for Liberty's white throne. 

Saw how, by sorrow tried and proved, 
The blackening stains had been removed 
Forever from the land he loved. 

Saw Treason crushed and Freedom crowned, 
And clamorous Faction, gagged and bound, 
Gasping its life out on the ground. 

Saw how, across his country's slopes, 
Walked sw T arming troops of cheerful hopes, 
Which evermore to broader scopes 

Increased, with power that comprehends 
The world's weal in its own, and bends 
Self-needs to large, unselfish ends. 



Sagb-Erlytfei! 33 



Saw how, throughout the vast extents 
Of Earth's most populous continents, 
She dropped such rare heart affluence 

That from beyond the utmost seas, 
The wondering peoples thronged to seize 
Her proffered pure benignities. 

Saw how, of all her trebled host 

Of widening empires, none might boast 

Whose love were best or strength were most, 

Because they grew so equal there 
Beneath the flag which, debonaire, 
Waved joyous in the cleansed air. 

With far-off vision gazing clear 
Beyond this gloomy atmosphere 
Which shuts us in with doubt and fear, 

He — marking how her high increase 
Ran greatening in perpetual lease 
Through balmy years of odorous peace — 

Greeted, in one transcendent cry 

Of intense passionate ecstasy, 

The sight which thrilled him utterly. 

Saluting with most proud disdain 
Of murder and of mortal pain, 
The vision which shall be again ! 

So, lifted with prophetic pride, 

Raised conquering hands toward heaven and cried, 

" All hail the Stars and Stripes !" and died. 

Richard Realf. 



34 1ShtgUs?Erff0*0 



DIXIE. 

[ The original of this popular Southern song, of which 
there were many variations during the war, is believed to 
be a Northern melody — an old negro refrain, dating back to 
the time when slavery existed in New York ; a certain Mr. 
Dixy, or Dixie, owning large tracts of land on Manhattan 
Island, and many slaves, among whom the estate was known 
as " Dixie's Land.'*] 

Southrons, hear your country call you ! 
Up, lest worse than death befall you ! 

To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie / 
Lo ! all the beacon-fires are lighted — 
Let all hearts be now united ! 

To ar?ns ! To arms / To arms, in Dixie ! 
Advance the flag of Dixie ! 
Hurrah ! hurrah / 
For Dixie's land we take our stand, 
And live or die for Dixie! 
To arms ! To arms / 
And conquer peace for Dixie / 

To arms ! To arms ! 
And conquer peace for Dixie f 

Hear the Northern thunders mutter ! 
Northern flags in South winds flutter ! 

To arms / 
Send them back your fierce defiance ! 
Stamp upon the accursed alliance \ 
To arms / 
Advance the flag of Dixie / 

Fear no danger ! Shun no labor ! 
Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre ! 

To arms / 
Shoulder pressing close to shoulder, 
Let the odds make each heart bolder ! 

To arms ! 
Advance the flag of Dixie / 



3Suglg-3:rf|flgfi 35 



How the South's great heart rejoices 
At your cannons' ringing voices ! 

To arms ! 
For faith betrayed, and pledges broken, 
Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken, 

To ar?ns ! 
Advance the flag of Dixie ! 

Strong as lions, swift as eagles, 

Back to their kennels hunt these beagles ! 

To arms ! 
Cut the unequal bonds asunder ! 
Let them hence each other plunder ! 

To arms / 
Advance the flag of Dixie ! 

Swear upon your country's altar 
Never to submit or falter ! 

To arms ! 
Till the spoilers are defeated, 
Till the Lord's work is completed. 

To arms ! 
Advance the flag of Dixie ! 

Halt not till our Federation 

Secures among earth's powers its station ! 

To arms ! 
Then at peace, and crowned with glory. 
Hear your children tell the story ! 

To arms ! 
Advance the flag of Dixie / 

If the loved ones weep in sadness, 
Victory soon shall bring them gladness. 

To arms ! 
Exultant pride soon vanish sorrow ; 
Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. 

To arms / To arms ! To arms, in Dixie ! 
Advance the flag of Dixie ! 
Hurrah! hurrah! 



36 18ttgk-?Erfj0e0 



For Dixie s land we take our stand, 
And live or die for Dixie ! 

To arms I To arms / 
And conquer peace for Dixie ! 

To arms ! To arms ! 
And conquer peace for Dixie / 

Albert Pike. 



THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL. 
[Boston, 1861.] 

This year, till late in April, the snow fell thick and 

light ; 
Thy truce-flag, friendly Nature, in clinging drifts of 

white 
Hung over field and city ; now everywhere is seen, 
In place of that white quietness, a sudden glow of 

green. 

The verdure climbs the Common, beneath the leaf- 
less trees, 

To where the glorious Stars and Stripes are floating 
on the breeze. 

There, suddenly as Spring awoke from Winter's 
snow-draped gloom, 

The passion-flower of Seventy-six is bursting into 
bloom. 

Dear is the time of roses, when earth to joy is wed, 
And garden-plat and meadow wear one generous 

flush of red ; 
But now in dearer beauty, to her ancient colors 

true, 
Blooms the old town of Boston in red and white and 

blue. 



lugfc-larlyittii ar 



Along the whole awakening North are those bright 

emblems spread ; 
A summer noon of patriotism is burning overhead ; 
No party badges flaunting now, no word of clique 

or clan ; 
But " Up for God and Union !" is the shout of every 

man. 

Oh, peace is dear to Northern hearts ; our hard- 
earned homes more dear ; 

But freedom is beyond the price of any earthly 
cheer ; 

And freedom's flag is sacred : he who would work 
it harm, 

Let him, although a brother, beware our strong 
right arm ! 

A brother! ah, the sorrow, the anguish of that 

word ! 
The fratricidal strife begun, when will its end be 

heard ? 
Not this the boon that patriots' hearts have prayed 

and waited for ; 
We loved them, and we longed for peace : but they 

would have it war. 

Yes, war! on this memorial day, the day of Lex- 
ington, 

A lightning-thrill along the wires from heart to 
heart has run. 

Brave men we gazed on yesterday, to-day for us 
have bled : 

Again is Massachusetts blood the first for freedom 
shed. 

To war, and with our brethren, then, if only this 

can be ! 
Life hangs as nothing in the scale against dear 

Liberty ! 



38 Sitgk-iErfjfltts 



Though hearts be torn asunder, for freedom we 

will fight : 
Our blood may seal the victory, but God will shield 

the right ! 

Lucy Larcom. 



THE STRIPES AND THE STARS. 

O Star-Spangled Banner ! the flag of our pride ! 
Though trampled by traitors and basely defied, 
Fling out to the glad winds your red, white, and 

blue, 
For the heart of the Northland is beating for you ! 
And her strong arm is nerving to strike with a will, 
Till the foe and his boastings are humbled and still ! 
Here's welcome to wounding and combat and scars 
And the glory of death — for the Stripes and the 

Stars ! 

From prairie, O ploughman ! speed boldly away — 
There's seed to be sown in God's furrows to-day ! 
Row landward, lone fisher ! stout woodman, come 

home ! 
Let smith leave his anvil and weaver his loom, 
And hamlet and city ring loud with the cry : 
" For God and our country we'll fight till we die ! 
Here's welcome to wounding and combat and scars 
And the glory of death — for the Stripes and the 

Stars !" 

Invincible banner ! the flag of the free, 
Oh, where treads the foot that would falter for thee ? 
Or the hands to be folded, till triumph is won 
And the eagle looks proud, as of old, to the sun ? 
Give tears for the parting — a murmur of prayer — 
Then forward! the fame of our standard to 
share ! 



Itogte-IErfjneH 3fl 



With welcome to wounding and combat and scars 
And the glory of death — for the Stripes and the 
Stars ! 

O God of our fathers ! this banner must shine 
Where battle is hottest, in warfare divine ! 
The cannon has thundered, the bugle has blown — 
We fear not the summons — we fight not alone ! 
O lead us, till wide from the gulf to the sea 
The land shall be sacred to freedom and Thee ! 
With love, for oppression ; with blessing, for scars — 
One country — one banner — the Stripes and the 
Stars ! 

Edna Dean Proctor. 



THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG. 

Come, brothers ! rally for the right ! 

The bravest of the brave 
Sends forth her ringing battle-cry 

Beside the Atlantic wave ! 
She leads the way in honor's path ; 

Come, brothers, near and far, 
Come rally 'round the Bonnie Blue Flag 

That bears a single star ! 

We've borne the Yankee trickery, 

The Yankee gibe and sneer, 
Till Yankee insolence and pride 

Know neither shame nor fear ; 
But ready now with shot and steel 

Their brazen front to mar, 
We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue Flag 

That bears a single star ! 

Now Georgia marches to the front, 
And close beside her come 



an !ugk-?Erfj0?0 



Her sisters by the Mexique Sea, 

With pealing trump and drum ; 
Till, answering back from hill and glen 

The rallying cry afar, 
A Nation hoists the Bonnie Blue Flag 

That bears a single star ! 

By every stone in Charleston Bay, 

By each beleaguered town, 
We swear to rest not, night nor day, 

But hunt the tyrants down ! 
Till, bathed in valor's holy blood 

The gazing world afar 
Shall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue Flag 

That bears the cross and star ! 

Annie Chambers Ketchum. 



TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE. 

That late, in half-despair, I said : 
" The Nation's ancient life is dead ; 
Her arm is weak; her blood is cold ; 
She hugs the peace that gives her gold— 
The shameful peace, that sees expire 
Each beacon-light of patriot fire, 
And makes her court a traitor's den," — 
Forgive me this, my Countrymen ! 

Of\, in your long forbearance grand, 
Slow to suspect the treason planned, 
Enduring wrong, yet hoping good 
For sake of olden brotherhood, 
How grander, how sublimer far, 
At the roused Eagle's call ye are, 
Leaping from slumber to the fight 
For Freedom and for Chartered Right ! 



Hugb-iErfjooa 4x 



Throughout the land there goes a cry : 
A sudden splendor fills the sky ; 
From every hill the banners burst, 
Like buds by April breezes nurst ; 
In every hamlet, home, and mart, 
The fire-beat of a single heart 
Keeps time to strains whose pulses mix 
Our blood with that of Seventy-Six ! 

Draw forth your million blades as one ! 
Complete the battle then begun ! 
God fights with ye, and overhead 
Floats the dear banner of your dead. 
They, and the glories of the Past, 
The Future, dawning dim and vast, 
And all the holiest hopes of man, 
Are beaming triumph in your van ! 

Slow to resolve, be swift to do ! 
Teach ye the False how fight the True ! 
How bucklered Perfidy shall feel 
In her black heart the Patriot's steel ; 
How sure the bolt that Justice wings ; 
How weak the arm a traitor brings ; 
How mighty they, who steadfast stand 
For Freedom's Flag and Freedom's Land ! 
Bayard Taylor. 



THE TWO FURROWS. 

The spring-time came, but not with mirth ; 

The banner of our trust, 
And with it the best hopes of earth 

Were trailing in the dust. 

The farmer saw the shame from far, 

And stopped his plough afield ; 
" Not the blade of peace, but the brand of war. 

This arm of mine must wield. 



42 «iu5l0-itr^a 



" When traitor hands that flag would stain, 

Their homes let women keep ; 
Until its stars burn bright again, 

Let others sow and reap." 

The farmer sighed. " A life-time long 

The plough has been my trust ; 
In truth, it were an arrant wrong 

To leave it now to rust." 

With ready strength the farmer tore 

The iron from the wood ; 
And to the village smith he bore 

That ploughshare, stout and good. 

The blacksmith's arms were bare and brown, 

And loud the bellows roared ; 
The farmer flung his ploughshare down : 

" Now forge me out a sword !" 

And then a merry, merry chime 

The sounding anvil rung ; 
Good sooth, it was a nobler rhyme 

Than ever poet sung. 

The blacksmith wrought with skill that day ; 

The blade was keen and bright ; 
And now where thickest is the fray 

The farmer leads the fight. 

Not as of old that blade he sways 

To break the meadow's sleep ; 
But through the rebel ranks he lays 

A furrow broad and deep. 

The farmer's face is burned and brown, 

But light is on his brow ; 
Right well he wots what blessings crown 

The furrow of the Plough. 



lugk-iEr^js 43 



" But better is to-day's success " — 
Thus ran the farmer's word — 

" For nations yet unborn shall bless 
This furrow of the Sword." 

C. H. Webb. 



SCOTT AND THE VETERAN. 
[May, 1861.] 

An old and crippled veteran to the War Depart- 
ment came ; 

He sought the Chief who led him on many a field 
of fame — 

The Chief who shouted " Forward ! " where'er his 
banner rose, 

And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying foes. 

" Have you forgotten, General," the battered soldier 

cried, 
" The days of Eighteen Hundred Twelve, when I 

was at your side ? 
Have you forgotten Johnson, that fought at Lundy's 

Lane ? 
'Tis true I'm old and pensioned, but I want to 

fight again." 

" Have I forgotten ?" said the Chief ; " my brave old 

soldier, no ! 
And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell 

you so : 
But you have done your share, my friend ; you're 

crippled, old, and gray, 
And we have need of younger arms and fresher 

blood to-day." 



44 Ittgle-lxrtjfltas 



" But, General," cried the veteran, a flush upon his 

brow, 
" The very men who fought with us, they say, are 

traitors now ; 
They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane— our old red, 

while, and blue ; 
And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that drop 

is true. 

" I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good 

old gun 
To get the range of traitors' hearts, and pick them, 

one by one. 
Your Minie" rifles, and such arms, it a'n't worth 

while to try ; 
I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep my 

powder dry !" 

"God bless you, comrade !" said the Chief; "God 

bless your loyal heart ! 
But younger men are in the field, and claim to have 

their part ; 
They'll plant our sacred banner in each rebellious 

town, 
And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to pull 

it down !" 

" But, General" — still persisting, the weeping veter- 
an cried, 

" I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're my 
guide ; 

And some, you know, must bite the dust, and that, 
at least, can I, — 

So give the young ones place to fight, but me a 
place to die ! 

" If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel in 

command 
Put me upon the rampart, with the flag-staff in my 

hand : 



iiitgle-iErljfl?*! 45 



No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the 

shells may fly ; 
I'll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them 

till I die ! 

" I'm ready, General, so you let a post to me be 

given, 
Where Washington can see me, as he looks from 

highest heaven, 
And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, General 

Wayne : 
' There stands old Billy Johnson, that fought at 

Lundy's Lane ! ' 

" And when the fight is hottest, before the traitors 

When shell and ball are screeching and bursting in 

the sky, 
If any shot should hit me, and lay me on my face, 
My soul would go to Washington's and not to 

Arnold's place !" 

Bayard Taylor. 



ENLISTED TO-DAY. 

I KNOW the sun shines, and the lilacs are blowing, 
And summer sends kisses by beautiful May ; 

Oh ! to see all the treasures the spring is bestowing, 
And think — my boy Willie enlisted to-day. 

It seems but a day since at twilight, low humming, 
I rocked him to sleep with his cheek upon mine, 

While Robby, the four-year-old, watched for the 
coming 
Of father, adown the street's indistinct line. 



4fi 3ngl*-&lpi*0 



It is many a year since my Harry departed, 

To come back no more in the twilight or dawn ; 

And Robby grew weary of watching, and started 
Alone on the journey his father had gone. 

It is many a year — and this afternoon, sitting 
At Robby's old window, I heard the band play, 

And suddenly ceased dreaming over my knitting, 
To recollect Willie is twenty to-day. 

And that, standing beside him this soft May-day 
morning, 
The sun making gold of his wreathed cigar 
smoke, 
I saw in his sweet eyes and lips a faint warning, 
And choked down the tears when he eagerly 
spoke : 

" Dear mother, you know how these Northmen are 
crowing, 
They would trample the rights of the South in 
the dust ; 
The boys are all fire ; and they wish I were going — " 
He stopped, but his eyes said, " Oh, say if I 
must !" 

I smiled on the boy, though my heart it seemed 
breaking, 
My eyes filled with tears, so I turned them away, 
And answered him, " Willie, 'tis well you are 
waking — 
Go, act as your father would bid you, to-day !" 

I sit in the window, and see the flags flying, 
And drearily list to the roll of the drum, 

And smother the pain in my heart that is lying, 
And bid all the fears in my bosom be dumb. 

I shall sit in the window when summer is lying 
Out over the fields, and the honey-bee's hum 



lIugk-IErfyDtfls! 47 



Lulls the rose at the porch from her tremulous sigh- 
ing, 
And watch for the face of my darling to come. 

And if he should fall — his young life he has given 
For freedom's sweet sake ; and forme, I will pray 

Once more with my Harry and Robby in heaven 
To meet the dear boy that enlisted to-day. 

Anonymous. 



BETHEL. 

[77 was in the ill-fated attack of the Union forces on Big 
Bethel, near Newport News, Virginia, yune 10, 1861, that 
the lamented Major Theodore Winthrop lost his life.] 

We mustered at midnight, in darkness we 

formed, 
And the whisper went round of a fort to be 

stormed ; 
But no drum-beat had called us, no trumpet we 

heard, 
And no voice of command, but our colonel's low 

word — 

" Column ! Forward!" 

And out, through the mist and the murk of the 

morn, 
From the beaches of Hampton our barges were 

borne ; 
And we heard not a sound, save the sweep of the 

oar, 
Till the word of our colonel came up from the 

shore — 

" Column! Forward !" 

With hearts bounding bravely, and eyes all alight, 
As ye dance to soft music, so trod we that night ; 



40 iBuglg-jErlpgg 



Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines 

overarched, 
Tossing dew-drops, like gems, from our feet, as we 

marched — 

" Column / Forward r 

As ye dance with the damsels, to viol and flute. 
So we skipped from the shadows, and mocked their 

pursuit ; 
But the soft zephyrs chased us, with scents of the 

morn, 
As we passed by the hay-fields and green waving 

corn — 

" Column ! Forward !" 

For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June, 
And the flowers and the foliage with sweets were in 

tune; 
And the air was so calm, and the forest so dumb, 
That we heard our own heart-beats, like taps of a 

drum — 

" Column I Forward!" 

Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by a breeze, 
And the buskins of morn brushed the tops of the 

trees, 
And the glintings of glory that slid from her track 
By the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back — 
"Column! Forward!" 

And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist, 

And the blue-crested hill-tops with rose-light were 
kissed, 

And the earth gave her prayers to the sun in per- 
fumes, 

Till we marched as through gardens, and trampled 
on blooms — 

"Column! Forward!" 



Sugte-IErfjittfli 43 



Ay ! trampled on blossoms, and seared the sweet 

breath 
Of the greenwood with low-brooding vapors of 

death ; 
O'er the flowers and the corn we were borne like a 

blast, 
And away to the forefront of battle we passed, — 
" Column! Forward!" 

For the cannon's hoarse thunder roared out from 

the glades, 
And the sun was like lightning on banners and 

blades, 
When the long line of chanting Zouaves, like a 

flood, 
From the green of the woodlands rolled, crimson 

as blood — 

" Column! Forward!'* 

While the sound of their song, like the surge of the 

seas, 
With the " Star-Spangled Banner " swelled over the 

leas ; 
And the sword of Duryea, like a torch, led the 

way, 
Bearing down on the batteries of Bethel that day — 
" Colwnn ! Forward !" 

Through green-tasselled cornfields our columns 
were thrown, 

And like corn by the red scythe of fire we were 
mown ; 

While the cannon's fierce ploughings new-fur- 
rowed the plain, 

That our blood might be planted for Liberty's 
grain — 

" Column / Forward 7" 



so Uttglg-jEffrogg 



Oh ! the fields of fair June have no lack of sweet 

flowers, 
But their rarest and best breathe no fragrance like 

ours ; 
And the sunshine of June, sprinkling gold on the 

corn, 
Hath no harvest that ripeneth like Bethel's red 

morn — 

" Column ! Forward !" 

When our heroes, like bridegrooms, with lips and 

with breath 
Drank the first kiss of Danger and clasped her in 

death ; 
And the heart of brave Winthrop grew mute with 

his lyre, 
When the plumes of his genius lay moulting in 

fire— 

" Column! Forward!" 

Where he fell shall be sunshine as bright as his 

name, 
And the grass where he slept shall be green as his 

fame; 
For the gold of the pen and the steel of the sword 
Write his deeds — in his blood — on the land he 

adored — 

"Column! Forward!" 

And the soul of our comrade shall sweeten the 

air, 
And the flowers and the grass-blades his memory 

upbear ; 
While the breath of his genius, like music in leaves, 
With the corn-tassels whispers, and sings in the 

sheaves — 

" Column ! Forward!" 

A. J. H. DUGANNE. 



MANASSAS. 

[First Battle of Bull Run, July 21, 1861.] 

They have met at last — as storm-clouds 

Meet in heaven ; 
And the Northmen back and bleeding 

Have been driven : 
And their thunders have been stilled, 
And their leaders crushed or killed, 
And their ranks, with terror thrilled, 

Rent and riven ! 

Like the leaves of Vallambrosa 

They are lying ; 
In the moonlight, in the midnight, 

Dead and dying : 
Like those leaves before the gale, 
Swept their legions, wild and pale ; 
While the host that made them quail 

Stood, defying. 

When aloft in morning sunlight 

Flags were flaunted, 
And " swift vengeance on the Rebel " 

Proudly vaunted : 
Little did they think that night 
Should close upon their shameful flight, 
And rebels, victors in the fight, 

Stand undaunted. 

But peace to those who perished 

In our passes ! 
Light be the earth above them ; 

Green the grasses ! 
Long shall Northmen rue the day 
When they met our stern array, 
And shrunk from battle's wild affray 

At Manassas ! 

Catherine M. Warfield. 



52 jBugtg-jErfrflgB 



THE DEATH OF LYON. 

{General Nathaniel Lyon was killed in the battle of 
Wilson's Creek, Missouri, while in command of the Union 
forces, August 10, j86i. His last words were : u Come on, 
my brave boys I I will lead you /"] 

Sing, bird, on green Missouri's plain, 

The saddest song of sorrow ; 
Drop tears, O clouds, in gentlest rain 

Ye from the winds can borrow ; 
Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh, 

Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor, 
For him who knew well how to die, 

But never to surrender. 

Up rose serene the August sun 

Upon that day of glory ; 
Up curled from musket and from gun 

The war-cloud, gray and hoary ; 
It gathered like a funeral pall, 

Now broken, and now blended, 
Where rang the bugle's angry call, 

And rank with rank contended. 

Four thousand men, as brave and true 

As e'er went forth in daring, 
Upon the foe that morning threw 

The strength of their despairing. 
They feared not death — men bless the field 

That patriot soldiers die on ; 
Fair Freedom's cause was sword and shield, 

And at their head was Lyon. 

Their leader's troubled soul looked forth 
From eyes of troubled brightness ; 

Sad soul ! the burden of the North 
Had pressed out all its lightness. 

He gazed upon the unequal fight, 
His ranks all rent and gory, 



Iittgk-1;rfj0*a 53 



And felt the shadows close like night 
Round his career of glory. 

"General, come lead us J" loud the cry 

From a brave band was ringing — 
" Lead us, and we will stop, or die, 

That battery's awful singing!" 
He spurred to where his heroes stood — 

Twice wounded, no one knowing — 
The fire of battle in his blood 

And on his forehead glowing. 

Oh ! cursed for aye that traitor's hand, 

And cursed that aim so deadly, 
Which smote the bravest of the land, 

And dyed his bosom redly ! 
Serene he lay, while past him pressed 

The battle's furious billow, 
As calmly as a babe may rest 

Upon its mother's pillow. 

So Lyon died ; and well may flowers 

His place of burial cover, 
For never had this land of ours 

A more devoted lover. 
Living, his country was his bride ; 

His life he gave her, dying ; 
Life, fortune, love, he nought denied 

To her, and to her sighing. 

Rest, patriot, in thy hillside grave, 

Beside her form who bore thee ! 
Long may the land thou diedst to save 

Her bannered stars wave o'er thee ! 
Upon her history's brightest page, 

And on fame's glowing portal, 
She'll write thy grand, heroic age, 

And grave thy name immortal. 

Anonymous. 



54 jittglg-JErfrflgB 

MOVE ON THE COLUMNS ! 

[Autumn, 1861.] 

Move on the columns ! Why delay ? 

Our soldiers sicken in their camps ; 

The summer heats, the autumn damps, 
Have sapped their vigor day by day ; 

And now the winter comes apace, 

With death-chills in its cold embrace, 
More fatal than the battle-fray. 

Move on the columns ! Hesitate 

No longer what to plan or do : 

Our cause is good — our men are true — 
This fight is for the flag, the State, 

The Union, and the hopes of man ; 

And Right will end what Wrong began, 
For God the right will vindicate. 

Move on the columns ! If the land 

Is locked by winter, take the sea ; 

No possible barrier can be 
So fatal to a rightful stand, 

As wavering purpose when at bay ; 

This way, or that — "At once ! to-day !" 
Were worth ten thousand men at hand. 

Move on the columns ! With the sweep 

Of eagles let them strike the foe. 

The hurricane lays the forest low ; 
Momentum wings the daring leap 

That clears the chasm ; the lightning stroke 

Shivers the wind-defying oak ; 
The earthquake rocks the eternal steep. 

Move on the columns ! Why have sprung 
Our myriad hosts from hill and plain ? 
Leaving the sickle in the grain — 



S«gU-ErI}0W 55 



Closing the harvest-hymn half sung — 
Half-filled the granary and the mow, 
Unturned the sod, untouched the plough, 

Scythes rusting where they last were swung. 

Move on the columns ! They are here 

To found anew a people's faith ; 

To save from treason and from death 
A nation which they all revere ; 

And on each manly brow is set 

A purpose such as never yet 
Was thwarted, when, as now, sincere. 

Move on the columns ! Earth contains 
No guerdon for the good and free 
Like that which blessed our Liberty ; 

And while its banner still remains 
The symbol of united power, 
Nor man nor fiend can tell the hour 

In which its star-lit glory wanes. 

Move on the columns — strong and bright ! 
Strike down the sacrilegious hands 
That clutch and wield the battle-brands 

Which menace with their Wrong our Right ! 
Words now are wasted : glittering steel 
Alone can make this last appeal : 

They've willed it so — and we must fight. 

Move on the columns ! If they go 
By ways they had not thought to take, 
To fields we had not meant to make, 
Or if they bring unthought-of woe, 

Let that which woke the fiery wrath 
Fall, scorched and blackening, in its path ; 
Not man, but God, may stay the blow : 
Move on the columns ! 

W. D. Gallagher. 



50 Sttglg-IErfoigfl 

THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD. 

[October, 1861.] 

Along a river-side, I know not where, 
I walked one night in mystery of dream ; 
A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my hair, 
To think what chanced me by the pallid gleam 
Of a moon-wraith that waned through haunted air. 

Pale fireflies pulsed within the meadow-mist 
Their halos, wavering thistledowns of light ; 
The loon, that seemed to mock some goblin tryst, 
Laughed ; and the echoes, huddling in affright, 
Like Odin's hounds, fled baying down the night. 

Then all was silent, till there smote my ear 

A movement in the stream that checked my breath . 

Was it the slow plash of a wading deer ? 

But something said, " This water is of Death ! 

The Sisters wash a shroud — ill thing to hear !" 

I, looking then, beheld the ancient Three 
Known to the Greek's and to the Northman's creed, 
That sit in shadow of the mystic tree, 
Still crooning, as they weave their endless brede, 
One song : " Time was, Time is, and Time shall 
be.'' 

No wrinkled crones were they, as I had deemed, 
But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, 
To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed ; 
Something too high for joy, too deep for sorrow, 
Thrilled in their tones, and from their faces gleamed. 

" Still men and nations reap as they have strawn," 
So sang they, working at their task the while ; 
" The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere dawn ; 
For Austria ? Italy ? the Sea-Queen's isle ? 
O'er what quenched grandeur must our shroud be 
drawn ? 



®u0le-IEdf0*a 57 



" Or is it for a younger, fairer corse, 
That gathered States for children round his knees, 
That tamed the wave to be his posting-horse, 
Feller of forests, linker of the seas, 
Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest son of Thor's ? 

" What make we, murmur 'st thou ? and what are 

we? 
When empires must be wound, we bring the shroud, 
The time-old web of the implacable Three : 
Is it too coarse for him, the young and proud ? 
Earth's mightiest deigned to wear it — why not he ?" 

" Is there no hope ?" I moaned, " so strong, so fair ! 
Our Fowler whose proud bird would brook ere- 

while 
No rival's swoop in all our western air ! 
Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file 
For him, life's morn yet golden in his hair ? 

" Leave me not hopeless, ye unpitying dames ! 
I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who scanned 
The stars, Earth's elders, still must noblest aims 
Be traced upon oblivious ocean-sand ? 
Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts of names ?" 

" When grass-blades stiffen with red battle-dew, 
Ye deem we choose the victor and the slain : 
Say, choose we them that shall be leal and true 
To the heart's longing, the high faith of brain ? 
Yet there the victory lies, if ye but knew. 

" Three roots bear up Dominion : Knowledge. 

Will— 
These twain are strong, but stronger yet the third — 
Obedience — 'tis the great tap-root that still, 
Knit round the rock of Duty, is not stirred, 
Though Heaven-loosed tempests spend their utmost 

skill. 



5h Sugle-feljara 



" Is the doom sealed for Hesper ? 'Tis not we 
Denounce it, but the Law before all time : 
The brave makes danger opportunity ; 
The waverer, paltering with the chance sublime, 
Dwarfs it to peril : which shall Hesper be ? 

" Hath he let vultures climb his eagle's seat 
To make Jove's bolts purveyors of their maw ? 
Hath he the Many's plaudits found more sweet 
Than Wisdom ? held Opinion's wind for Law ? 
Then let him hearken for the doomster's feet ! 

" Rough are the steps, slow-hewn in flintiest rock, 
States climb to power by ; slippery those with gold 
Down which they stumble to eternal mock : 
No charterer's hand shall long the sceptre hold, 
Who, given a Fate to shape, would sell the block. 

" We sing old Sagas, songs of weal and woe, 
Mystic because too cheaply understood ; 
Dark sayings are not ours ; men hear and know, 
See Evil weak, see strength alone in Good, 
Yet hope to stem God's fire with walls of tow. 

" Time Was unlocks the riddle of Time Is, 
That offers choice of glory or of gloom ; 
The solver makes Time Shall Be surely his. 
But hasten, Sisters ! for even now the tomb 
Grates its slow hinge and calls from the abyss." 

" But not for him," I cried, "not yet for him, 
Whose large horizon, westering, star by star 
Wins from the void to where on Ocean's rim 
The sunset shuts the world with golden bar, 
Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye grow dim ! 

" His shall be larger manhood, saved for those 
That walk unblenching through the trial-fires ; 
Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes, 
And he no base-born son of craven sires, 
Whose eye need blench confronted with his foes. 



Tears may be ours, but proud, for those who win 
Death's royal purple in the foeman's lines ; 
Peace, too, brings tears ; and 'mid the battle-din 
The wiser ear some text of God divines, 
For the sheathed blade may rust with darker sin. 

" God give us peace ! — not such as lulls to sleep, 

But sword on thigh, and brow with purpose knit ! 

And let our Ship of State to harbor sweep, 

Her ports all up, her battle-lanterns lit, 

And her leashed thunders gathering for their leap !" 

So cried I with clenched hands and passionate pain, 
Thinking of dear ones by Potomac's side ; 
Again the loon laughed mocking, and again 
The echoes bayed far down the night and died, 
While, waking, I recalled my wandering brain. 
James Russell Lowell. 



IN STATE. 

I. 

O Keeper of the sacred Key, 
And the Great Seal of Destiny, 
Whose eye is the blue canopy, 
Look down upon the warring world, and tell us what 
the end will be. 

"Lo, through the wintry atmosphere, 
On the white bosom of the sphere, 
A cluster of five lakes appear ; 
And all the land looks like a couch, or warrior's 
shield, or sheeted bier. 



fin ISuglg-iErfrogff 



" And on that vast and hollow field, 
With both lips closed and both eyes sealed, 
A mighty figure is revealed — 
Stretched at full length, and stiff and stark, as in 
the hollow of a shield. 

" The winds have tied the drifted snow 
Around the face and chin ; and lo, 
The sceptred giants come and go, 
And shake their shadowy crowns and say: 'We 
always feared it would be so ! ' 

" She came of an heroic race : 
A giant's strength, a maiden's grace, 
Like two in one seem to embrace, 
And match, and blend, and thorough-blend, in her 
colossal form and face. 

" Where can her dazzling falchion be ? 
One hand is fallen in the sea ; 
The Gulf Stream drifts it far and free ; 
And in that hand her shining brand gleams from 
the depths resplendently. 

" And by the other, in its rest, 
The starry banner of the West 
Is clasped forever to her breast ; 
And of her silver helmet, lo ! a soaring eagle is the 
crest. 

" And on her brow a softened light, 
As of a star concealed from sight 
By some thin veil of fleecy white, 
Or of the rising moon behind the rainy vapors of the 
night. 

" The sisterhood that was so sweet, 
The starry system sphered complete, 
Which the mazed Orient used to greet, 



Itogk-IEdjaeB ex 



The four-and-thirty fallen stars glimmer and glitter 
at her feet. 

" And over her — and over all, 
For panoply and coronal — 
The mighty Immemorial, 
And everlasting canopy, and starry arch, and shield 
of all. 

II. 

"Three cold bright moons have marched and 

wheeled, 
And the white cerement that revealed 
A figure stretched upon a shield, 
Is turned to verdure ; and the land is now one 

mighty battle-field. 

" And lo ! the children which she bred, 
And more than all else cherished, 
To make them true in heart and head, 
Stand face to face, as mortal foes, with their swords 
crossed above the dead. 

" Each hath a mighty stroke and stride : 
One true, the more that he is tried ; 
The other dark and evil-eyed ; 
And by the hand of one of them his own dear 
mother surely died ! 

" A stealthy step, a gleam of hell, — 
It is the simple truth to tell : 
The son stabbed, and the mother fell ; 
And so she lies, all mute and pale, and pure and 
irreproachable ! 

" And then the battle-trumpet blew ; 
And the true brother sprang and drew 
His blade to smite the traitor through ; 
And so they clashed above the bier, and the night 
sweated bloody dew. 



62 Uttgitf-IErlfOflB 



" And all their children, far and wide, 
That are so greatly multiplied, 
Rise up in frenzy and divide ; 
And choosing each whom he will serve, unsheathe 
the sword and take their side. 

" And in the low sun's bloodshot rays, 
Portentous of the coming days, 
The two great oceans blush and blaze, 
With the emergent continent between them, wrapt 
in crimson haze. 

" Now whichsoever stand or fall, 
As God is great, and man is small, 
The truth shall triumph over all : 
Forever and forevermore, the truth shall triumph 
over all ! 

ill. 

" I see the champion sword-strokes flash • 
I see them fall and hear them clash ; 
I hear the murderous engines crash ; 
I see a brother stoop to loose a foeman-brother's 
bloody sash. 

" I see the torn and mangled corse, 
The dead and dying heaped in scores, 
The headless rider by his horse, 
The wounded captive bayoneted through and 
through without remorse. 

" I hear the dying sufferer cry, 
With his crushed face turned to the sky ; 
I see him crawl in agony 
To the foul pool, and bow his head into the bloody 
slime, and die. 



" I see the assassin crouch and fire ; 

I see his victim fall — expire ; 

I see the murderer creeping nigher 



JBaqjk-fErfpigfl 63 



To strip the dead. He turns the head — the face ! 
The son beholds his sire ! 

" I hear the curses and the thanks ; 
I see the mad charge on the flanks, 
The rents, the gaps, the broken ranks, 
The vanquished squadrons driven headlong down 
the river's bridgeless banks. 

" I see the death-gripe on the plain, 
The grappling monsters on the main, 
The tens of thousands that are slain, 
And all the speechless suffering and agony of heart 
and brain. 

" I see the dark and bloody spots, 
The crowded rooms and crowded cots, 
The bleaching bones, the battle blots, — 
And writ on many a nameless grave, a legend of 
forget-me-nots. 

" I see the gorged prison-den, 
The dead-line and the pent-up pen, 
The thousands quartered in the fen, 
The living deaths of skin and bone that were the 
goodly shapes of men. 

" And still the bloody dew must fall ! 
And His great darkness with the pall 
Of His dread Judgment cover all, 
Till the dead nation rise transformed by truth to 
triumph over all ! 

" And last — and last I see — the deed." 
Thus saith the Keeper of the key, 
And the Great Seal of Destiny, 
Whose eye is the blue canopy, 
And leaves the pall of His great darkness over all 
the land and sea. 

FORCEYTHE WlLLSON, 



64 IBstgk-iEripted 



THE HOPES OF MAN. 

OUR past is bright and grand 

In the purpling tints of time, 
And the present of our land 

Points to glories more sublime. 
For our destiny is won, 

And 'tis ours to lead the van 
Of the nations marching on, 
Of the moving hosts of Man. 

Yes, the Starry Flag alone 
Shall wave above the van 
Of the nations sweeping on, 
Of the moving hosts of Man. 

We are sprung from noble sires 

As were ever sung in song ; 
We are bold with Freedom's fires, 

We are rich, and wise, and strong. 
On us are freely showered 
The gifts of every clime, 
And we're the richest dowered 
Of all the heirs of Time. 

Brothers, then, in Union strong, 

We shall ever lead the van, 
As the nations sweep along 
To fulfil the hopes of Man. 

We are brothers, and we know 

That our Union is a tower, 
When the fiercest whirlwinds blow 
And the darkest tempests lower. 
We shall sweep the land and sea 

While we march in Union great — 
Thirty millions of the free, 
With the steady stride of fate. 

Brothers, then, in Union strong. 

Let us ever lead the van. 
As the nations sweep along 
To fulfil the hopes of Man. 



!ajgb-?Erfj0?0 S5 



See our prairies, sky-surrounded ! 
See our hills with golden veins ! 
See our waving woods unbounded, 

And our cities on the plains ! 
See the oceans kiss our strand — 

Oceans stretched from pole to pole . 
See our mighty lakes expand, 
And our giant rivers roll ! 

Such a land, and such alone, 
Should be leader of the van 
Of the nations sweeping on 
To fulfil the hopes of Man. 

Yes, the spirit of our land, 

The young giant of the West, 
With the waters in his hand, 

With the forests for his crest, 
To our hearts' quick, proud pulsations, 

To our shouts that still increase, 
Shall yet lead on the nations 
To their brotherhood of peace. 

Yes, Columbia, great and strong, 

Shall forever lead the van, 
As the nations sweep along 
To fulfil the hopes of Man. 

Joseph O'Connor. 



GOD SAVE THE NATION ! 

Thou who ordainest, for the land's salvation, 
Famine, and fire, and sword, and lamentation, 
Now unto Thee we lift our supplication — 
God save the Nation ! 

By the great sign, foretold, of Thy appearing, 
Coming in clouds, while mortal men stand fearing* 
Show us, amid this smoke of battle, clearing, 
Thy chariot nearing ! 



0fi %\x%U-T&t\\rxt& 



By the brave blood that floweth like a river, 
Hurl Thou a thunderbolt from out Thy quiver ! 
Break Thou the strong gates ! Every fetter shiver ! 
Smite and deliver ! 

Slay Thou our foes, or turn them to derision ! — 
Then, in the blood-red Valley of Decision, 
Make the land green with Peace, as in a vision 
Of fields elysian ! 

Theodore Tilton. 



BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 

[November, i86i.] % 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of 

the Lord ; 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes 

of wrath are stored ; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible 

swift sword : 

His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred cir- 
cling camps ; 

They have builded Him an altar in the evening 
dews and damps ; 

I have read His righteous sentence by the dim and 
flaring lamps : 

His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows 

of steel : 
" As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my 

grace shall deal ; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent 

with his heel, 

Since God is marching on." 



Sugfe-IErf^ B7 



He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never 
call retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judg- 
ment-seat ; 

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant, 
my feet ! 

Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across 

the sea, 
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you 

and me ; 
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make 
men free, 

While God is marching on. 

Julia Ward Howe. 



ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC. 

[This piece, sotnetimes printed with the less character- 
istic title of " The Picket Guard" has been claimed for 
several authors, Northern and Southern. It appeared in 
the "Southern Literary Messenger," February, 1863, as 
" written by Lamar Fontaine, private of Co7npany I, Sec- 
ond Regiment Virginia Cavalry, while on picket, on the 
bank of the Potomac, in 1861." More recently, it has been 
claimed for another Southern soldier, named Thad Oliver. 
But it is now known to have been written by Mrs. Ethel 
Lynn {or Ethelinda) Beers, of New York, and first pub- 
lished in " Harper's Weekly" in 1861. The phrase " All 
quiet along the Potomac" was a familiar one in the fall of 
that year; and in the indifferent announcement that was 
one day added, "A picket shot" the author found the 
inspiration of her poem.\ 

" All quiet along the Potomac," they say, 
" Except now and then a stray picket 

Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro. 
By a rifleman hid in the thicket ; 



B0 Uugle-IErfjflflBi 



'Tis nothing — a private or two now and then 

Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
Not an officer lost — only one of the men, 
Moaning out, all alone, his death-rattle." 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; 
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, 

Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. 
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind 

Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping ; 
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, 

Keep guard — for the army is sleeping. 

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, 

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed 

Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
His musket falls slack — his face, dark and grim, 

Grows gentle with memories tender, 
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, 

For their mother — may Heaven defend her ! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, 

That night, when the love yet unspoken 
Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmured vows 

Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 

He dashes off tears that are welling, 
And gathers his gun closer up to its place, 

As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree — 

The footstep is lagging and weary ; 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, 

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves ? 

Was it moonlight so suddenly flashing ? 
It looked like a rifle . . . . " Ha ! Mary, good-by !" 

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 



lugMErfjaoa 



All quiet along the Potomac to-night ; 

No sound save the rush of the river ; 
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — 

The picket's off duty forever ! 

Ethel Lynn Beers. 



ONLY A PRIVATE. 

Only a private — and who will care 

When I may pass away, 
Or how, or why I perish, or where 

I mix with the common clay ? 
They will fill my empty place again 

With another as bold and brave ; 
And they'll blot me out ere the autumn rain 

Has freshened my nameless grave. 

Only a private — it matters not 

That I did my duty well, 
That all through a score of battles I fought, 

And then, like a soldier, fell. 
The country I died for never will heed 

My unrequited claim ; 
And History cannot record the deed, 

For she never has heard my name. 

Only a private — and yet I know 

When I heard the rallying-call 
I was one of the very first to go, 

And . „ . I'm one of the many who fall : 
But as here I lie, it is sweet to feel 

That my honor's without a stain, — 
That I only fought for my country's weal, 

And not for glory or gain. 

Only a private — yet He who reads 
Through the guises of the heart, 

Looks not at the splendor of the deeds, 
But the way we do our part ; 



And when He shall take us by the hand, 

And our small service own, 
There'll a glorious band of privates stand 
As victors around the throne ! 

Margaret J. Preston {Southern). 



THE FANCY SHOT. 

[This is the title by which this famous piece is more gen~ 
erally known, although " Civil War " is perhaps the more 
authentic one. The poem appeared early in the war, in the 
London " Once a Week" with the caption " Civile Bellum," 
and dated "From the Once United States." Its author- 
ship is not clearly settled, but is commonly attributed to 
Charles Dawson Shanly, who died in 1876.] 

" Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot 

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette ; 

Ring me a ball in the glittering spot 

That shines on his breast like an amulet !'* 

" Ah, Captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead ; 
There's music around when my barrel's in 
tune !" 
Crack ! went the rifle, the messenger sped, 

And dead from his horse fell the ringing dra- 
goon. 

" Now, Rifleman, steal through the bushes, and 
snatch 
From your victim some trinket to handsel first 
blood — 
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch 

That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud." 

" O Captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my track, 
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette ; 

For he looked so like you as he lay on his back 
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. 



5ltt0l£-l;rtj0£H n 



" But I snatched off the trinket — this locket of gold ; 

An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, 
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, 

Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 

" Ha ! Rifleman, fling me the locket ! — 'tis she, 
My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon 

Was her husband — Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's 
decree ; 
We must bury him here, by the light of the moon ! 

" But, hark ! the far bugles their warnings unite ; 

War is a virtue — weakness a sin ; 
There's lurking and loping around us to-night ; 

Load again, Rifleman, keep your hand in !" 

Charles Dawson Shanly. 



THE COUNTERSIGN. 

[There has been no little dispute as to the authorship of 
this poem. The Philadelphia "Press" in 1861, said it was 
" written by a private in Company G, Stuart's Engineer 
Regiment, at Camp Lesley, near Washington^ But it 
may now be stated positively that it was written by a Con- 
federate soldier, still living. The poem is usually printed 
in a very imperfect form, with the fourth, fifth, and sixth 
stanzas omitted. The third line of the fifth stanza affords 
internal evidence of Southern origin.} 

Alas ! the weary hours pass slow, 

The night is very dark and still ; 
And in the marshes far below 

I hear the bearded whippoorwill ; 
I scarce can see a yard ahead, 

My ears are strained to catch each sound; 
I hear the leaves about me shed, 

And the spring's bubbling through the ground. 



7* 3hsgk-&lp I *0 



Along the beaten path I pace, 

Where white rags mark my sentry's track ; 
In formless shrubs I seem to trace 

The foeman's form with bending back, 
I think I see him crouching low : 

I stop and list — I stoop and peer, 
Until the neighboring hillocks grow 

To groups of soldiers far and near. 

With ready piece I wait and watch, 

Until my eyes, familiar grown, 
Detect each harmless earthern notch, 

And turn guerrillas into stone ; 
And then, amid the lonely gloom, 

Beneath the tall old chestnut trees, 
My silent marches I resume, 

And think of other times than these. 

Sweet visions through the silent night ! 

The deep bay-windows fringed with vine, 
The room within, in softened light, 

The tender milk-white hand in mine ; 
The timid pressure, and the pause 

That often overcame our speech — 
That time when by mysterious laws 

We each felt all in all to each. 

And then that bitter, bitter day, 

When came the final hour to part ; 
When, clad in soldier's honest gray, 

I pressed her weeping to my heart ; 
Too proud of me to bid me stay, 

Too fond of me to let me go, — 
I had to tear myself away, 

And left her, stolid in my woe. 

So rose the dream — so passed the night — 
When, distant in the darksome glen, 

Approaching up the sombre height 
I heard the solid march of men : 



Hu0i£-1Erff0£0 ?a 



Till over stubble, over sward, 

And fields where lay the golden sheaf, 

I saw the lantern of the guard 
Advancing with the night relief. 

" Halt ! Who goes there ?" My challenge cry, 

It rings along the watchful line ; 
" Relief !" I hear a voice reply ; 

" Advance, and give the countersign !" 
With bayonet at the charge I wait — 

The corporal gives the mystic spell ; 
With arms aport I charge my mate, 

Then onward pass, and all is well. 

But in the tent that night awake, 

I ask, if in the fray I fall, 
Can I the mystic answer make 

When the angelic sentries call ? 
And pray that Heaven may so ordain, 

Where'er I go, what fate be mine, 
Whether in pleasure or in pain, 

I still may have the countersign. 

Anonymous {Southern), 



THE BRAVE AT HOME. 

The maid who binds her warrior's sash, 

With smile that well her pain dissembles, 
The while beneath her drooping lash 

One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, 
Though Heaven alone records the tear, 

And fame shall never know her story, 
Her heart has shed a drop as dear 

As e'er bedewed the field of glory ! 



74 Ihtgi£~!Er!j0£0 



BOY BRITTAN. 

[Battle of Fort Henry, Tenn., February 6, 1862.] 

I. 



The wife who girds her husband's sword, 

'Mid little ones who weep or wonder, 
And bravely speaks the cheering word, 

What though her heart be rent asunder, 
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 

The bolts of death around him rattle, 
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er 

Was poured upon the field of battle ! 

The mother who conceals her grief, 

While to her breast her son she presses, 
Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
With no one but her secret God 

To know the pain that weighs upon her, 
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod 

Received on freedom's field of honor ! 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



Boy Brittan — only a lad — a fair-haired boy — six- 
teen, 

In his uniform, 
Into the storm — into the roaring jaws of grim Fort 
Henry — 
Boldly bears the Federal flotilla — 
Into the battle storm ! 



Boy Brittan is master's mate aboard of the Essex — 
There he stands, buoyant and eager-eyed, 
By the brave captain's side ; 



luglg-jErfotgg rs 



Ready to do and dare. Aye, aye, sir! always 
ready — 

In his country's uniform. 
Boom / Boom I and now the flag-boat sweeps, and 
now the Essex, 

Into the battle storm ! 

III. 

Boom / Boom ! till river and fort and field are over- 
clouded 
By battle's breath ; then from the fort a gleam 
And a crashing gun, and the Essex is wrapt and 
shrouded 

In a scalding cloud of steam ! 

IV. 

But victory ! victory ! 
Unto God all praise be ever rendered, 
Unto God all praise and glory be ! 
See, boy Brittan ! see, boy, see ! 
They strike ! Hurrah ! the fort has just surren- 
dered ! 
Shout ! Shout ! my boy, my warrior boy ! 
And wave your cap and clap your hands for joy ! 

Cheer answer cheer and bear the cheer about — 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the fiery fort is ours ; 
And " Victory !" "Victory!" "Victory!" 
Is the shout. 
Shout — for the fiery fort, and the field, and the day 
are ours — 
The day is ours — thanks to the brave endeavor 

Of heroes, boy, like thee ! 
The day is ours — the day is ours ! 
Glory and deathless love to all who shared with 

thee, 
And bravely endured and dared with thee — 
The day is ours — the day is ours — 
Forever ! 



re 3faj3k-lErfj0?0 



Glory and Love for one and all; but — but — for 
thee — 
Home ! Home ! a happy "Welcome — welcome 
home " for thee ! 

And kisses of love for thee — 
And a mother's happy, happy tears, and a virgin's 
bridal wreath of flowers — 
For thee ! 



Victory ! Victory ! . . . . 
But suddenly wrecked and wrapt in seething steam, 
the Essex 
Slowly drifted out of the battle's storm ; 
Slowly, slowly down — laden with the dead and the 

dying ; 
And there, at the captain's feet, among the dead 

and the dying, 
The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lying — 
There in his uniform ! 

VI. 

Laurels and tears for thee, boy, 
Laurels and tears for thee ! 
Laurels of light, moist with the precious dew 

Of the inmost heart of the nation's loving heart, 
And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and 

the true ; 
Moist — moist with the luminous breath of the sing- 
ing spheres 

And the nation's sta'ry tears ! 
And tremble-touched by the pulse-like gush and 

start 
Of the universal music of the heart, 
And all deep sympathy 
Laurels and tears for thee, boy, 

Laurels and tears for thee— 
Laurels of light and tears of love forevermore — 
For thee ! 



Sugte-iarljflfla 77 



VII. 

And laurels of light, and tears of truth, 

And the mantle of immortality ; 
And the flowers of love and immortal youth, 
And the tender heart-tokens of all true ruth — 
And the everlasting victory ! 

And the breath and bliss of Liberty ; 

And the loving kiss of Liberty ; 
And the welcoming light of heavenly eyes, 

And the over-calm of God's canopy ; 
And the infinite love-span of the skies 
That cover the valleys of Paradise — 

For all of the brave who rest with thee ; 

And for one and all who died with thee, 

And now sleep side by side with thee ; 
And for every one who lives and dies, 

On the solid land or the heaving sea, 
Dear warrior-boy — like thee. 

VIII. 

O the victory — the victory 
Belongs to thee ! 
God ever keeps the brightest crown for such as 
thou — 

He gives it now to thee ! 
O young and brave, and early and thrice blest — 

Thrice, thrice, thrice blest ! 

Thy country turns once more to kiss thy youthful 

brow, 

And takes thee — gently — gently to her breast ; 

And whispers lovingly, " God bless thee — bless thee 

now — 

My darling, thou shalt rest ! " 

FORCEYTHE WlLLSON. 



ra 25«0k-ErIj0^0 



LITTLE GIFFEN OF TENNESSEE. 

Out of the focal and foremost fire, 
Out of the hospital walls as dire, 
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, 
(Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen ! ) 
Spectre such as we seldom see, 
Little Giffen of Tennessee ! 

" Take him — and welcome !" the surgeon said ; 
" Much your doctor can help the dead !" 
And so we took him and brought him where 
The balm was sweet on the summer air ; 
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed — 
Utter Lazarus, heel to head ! 

Weary war with the bated breath, 
Skeleton boy against skeleton Death. 
Months of torture, how many such ! 
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch ! 
Still a glint in the steel-blue eye 
Spoke of the spirit that would not die, 

And didn't ! nay, more ! in death's despite 
The crippled skeleton learned to write ! 
" Dear mother " at first, of course : and then, 
" Dear captain " — inquiring about " the men." 
Captain's answer — " Of eighty and five, 
Giffen and I are left alive !" 

" Johnston's pressed at the front, they say !" 

Little Giffen was up and away. 

A tear, his first, as he bade good-by, 

Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye ; 

" r 11 write, if spared." There was news of a 

fight, 
But none of Giffen. He did not write ! 

I sometimes fancy that were I king 

Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring, 



®U0ie-iErlj0?0 ra 



With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, 
And the tender legend that trembles here, 
I'd give the best, on his bended knee, 
The whitest soul of my chivalry, 
For little Giffen of Tennessee ! 

Francis O. Ticknor. 



GENERAL ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON. 

[Fell in the Battle of Pittsburgh Landing, Tenn., March 2, 
1862.] 

In thickest fight triumphantly he fell, 
While into victory's arms he led us on ; 

A death so glorious our grief should quell : 
We mourn him, yet his battle-crown is won. 

No slanderous tongue can vex his spirit now, 

No bitter taunts can stain his blood-bought 
fame; 

Immortal honor rests upon his brow, 

And noble memories cluster round his name. 

For hearts shall thrill and eyes grow dim with 
tears, 

To read the story of his touching fate ; 
How in his death the gallant soldier wears 

The crown that came for earthly life too late. 

Ye people ! guard his memory — sacred keep 
The garlands green above his hero-grave ; 

Yet weep, for praise can never wake his sleep, 
To tell him he is shrined among the brave ! 

Mary Jervey. 



Bfl I$tt0l£-?:rfj0£is 



THE CUMBERLAND. 

[The United States war-ship Cumberland, commanded by 
Captain Morris, was sunk, with her creiv of a hundred 
men, by the Confederate ram Merrimac, in the famous na- 
val battle at Hampton Roads, Va., March 9, 1862. After 
sinking, the flag at her mainmast still floated above the 
water. .] 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 

On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ; 
And at times from the fortress across the bay 
The alarum of drums swept past, 
Or a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 

Then far away to the south uprose 

A little feather of snow-white smoke, 
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
Was steadily steering its course 
To try the force 
Of our ribs of oak. 

Down upon us heavily runs, 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; 
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, 
And leaps the terrible death, 
With fiery breath, 
From each open port. 

We are not idle, but send her straight 

Defiance back in a full broadside ! 
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 

" Strike your flag !" the rebel cries, 

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
" Never !" our gallant Morris replies ; 
" It is better to sink than to yield !" 
And the whole air pealed 
With the cheers of our men. 



ISwjfr-iErfyfleH hi 



Then, like a kraken huge and black, 

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! 
Down went the Cumberland all a-wrack, 
With a sudden shudder of death, 
And the cannon's breath 
For her dying gasp. 

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 

Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. 
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day ! 
Every waft of the air 
Was a whisper of prayer, 
Or a dirge for the dead. 

Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! 

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream ; 
Ho ! brave land with hearts like these, 
Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 
Shall be one again, 
And without a seam ! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE RIVER FIGHT. 

[In April, 1862, Admiral Farragut ran his squadron past 
the Confederate batteries defending the Lower Mississippi, 
encountering and defeating a fleet of steamers, rams, and 
fire-rafts.} 



Would you hear of the River Fight? 
It was two, of a soft spring night — 

God's stars looked down on all, 
And all was clear and bright 
But the low fog's chilling breath ; 
Up the river of Death 

Sailed the Great Admiral. 



Ittgte-IErfjflfla 



On our high poop-deck he stood, 

And round him ranged the men 
Who have made their birthright good 

Of manhood, once and agen — 
Lords of helm and of sail, 
Tried in tempest and gale, 

Bronzed in battle and wreck — 
Bell and Bailey grandly led 
Each his line of the blue and red — 
Wainwright stood by our starboard rail, 

Thornton fought the deck. 

And I mind me of more than they, 
Of the youthful, steadfast ones, 
That have shown them worthy sons 

Of the seamen passed away — 

(Tyson conned our helm that day, 
Watson stood by his guns). 

What thought our Admiral then, 
Looking down on his men ? 

Since the terrible day 

(Day of renown and tears !) 

When at anchor the Essex lay, 

Holding her foes at bay, 
When, a boy, by Porter's side he stood 
Till deck and plank-sheer were dyed with blood, 
'Tis half a hundred years — 

Half a hundred years, to-day ! 

Who could fail, with him ? 
Who reckon of life or limb ? 

Not a pulse but beat the higher ! 
There had you seen, by the star-light dim, 
Five hundred faces strong and grim — 

The Flag is going under fire ! 
Right up by the fort, with her helm hard a-port, 

The Hartford is going under fire ! 



iHugle-iErijnrn 0a 



The way to our work was plain : 
Caldwell had broken the chain 
(Two hulks swung down amain, 

Soon as 'twas sundered) — 
Under the night's dark blue, 
Steering steady and true, 
Ship after ship went through — 
Till, as we hove in view, 

Jackson out-thundered. 

Back echoed Philip ! Ah, then — ■ 
Could you have seen our men, 

How they sprung, in the dim night haze, 
To their work of toil and of clamor ! 
How the loaders, with sponge and rammer, 
And their captains, with cord and hammer, 

Kept every muzzle ablaze ! 
How the guns, as with cheer and shout 
Our tackle-men hurled them out, 

Brought up on the water-ways ! 

First, as we fired at their flash, 

'Twas lightning and black eclipse, 
With a bellowing roll and crash ; 
But soon, upon either bow, 

What with forts, and fire-rafts, and ships— 
(The whole fleet was hard at it now, 
All pounding away !) and Porter 
Still thundering with shell and mortar— 
'Twas the mighty sound and form 
Of an equatorial storm ! 

(Such you see in the far south, 

After long heat and drouth, 
As day draws nigh to even — 

Arching from north to south, 
Blinding the tropic sun, 
The great black bow comes on— ~ 

Till the thunder-veil is riven, 

When all is crash and levin, 



fi4 *3u0k-!Er!j0£0 



And the cannonade of heaven 
Rolls down the Amazon !) 

But as we worked along higher, 

Just where the river enlarges, 
Down came a pyramid of fire — 

It was one of your long coal barges. 

(We had often had the like before) — 
'Twas coming down on us to larboard, 

Well in with the eastern shore — 

And our pilot, to let it pass round 

(You may guess we never stopped to sound), 
Giving us a rank sheer to starboard, 

Ran the Flag hard and fast aground ! 

'Twas nigh abreast of the Upper Fort ; 

And straightway a rascal ram 

(She was shaped like the devil's dam) 
Puffed away for us, with a snort, 

And shoved it, with spiteful strength, 
Right alongside of us, to port — 

It was all of our ship's length, 
A huge crackling cradle of the pit ! 

Pitch-pine knots to the brim, 

Belching flame red and grim — 
What a roar came up from it ! 

Well, for a little it looked bad — 

But these things are, somehow, shorter 
In the acting than the telling — 
There was no singing-out nor yelling, 
Nor any fussing and fretting, 

No stampede, in short — 
But there we were, my lad, 

All a-fire on our port quarter ! 
Hammocks a-blaze in the netting, 

Flame spouting in at every port — 
Our fourth cutter burning at the davit 
(No chance to lower away and save it). 



luglg-grfEflgfi as 



In a twinkling, the flames had risen 
Halfway to maintop and mizzen, 

Darting up the shrouds like snakes ! 

Ah ! how we clanked at the brakes, 

And the deep steam-pumps throbbed under, 

Sending a ceaseless flow ! 
Our top-men, a dauntless crowd, 
Swarmed in rigging and shroud — 

There ('twas a wonder !) 
The burning ratlins and strands 
They quenched with their bare hard hands — 

But the great guns below 

Never silenced their thunder ! 

At last, by backing and sounding, 
When we were clear of grounding, 

And under headway once more, 
The whole rebel fleet came rounding 

The point. If we had it hot before, 

'Twas now, from shore to shore, 

One long, loud, thundering roar — 
Such crashing, splintering, and pounding, 

And smashing as you never heard before ! 

But that we fought foul wrong to wreck, 
And to save the land we loved so well, 

You might have deemed our long gun-deck 
Two hundred feet of hell ! 

For all above was battle, 
Broadside, and blaze, and rattle, 

Smoke and thunder alone — 
(But down in the sick-bay, 
Where our wounded and dying lay, 

There was scarce a sob or a moan.) 
And at last, when the dim day broke, 
And the sullen sun awoke, 

Drearily blinking 
O'er the haze and the cannon-smoke. 



bh IIugte-iErfjofla 



That ever such morning dulls — 
There were thirteen traitor hulls 
On fire and sinking ! 

Now, up the river ! — though mad Chalmette 

Sputters a vain resistance yet. 

Small helm we gave her, our course to steer — 

'Twas nicer work than you well would dream, 
With cant and sheer to keep her clear 

Of the burning wrecks that cumbered the stream. 

The Louisiana, hurled on high, 

Mounts in thunder to meet the sky ! 

Then down to the depths of the turbid flood 

Fifty fathom of rebel mud ! 

The Mississippi comes floating down, 

A mighty bonfire, from off the town — 

And along the river, on stocks and ways, 

A half-hatched devil's brood is ablaze ; 

The great Anglo-Norman is all in flames, 

(Hark to the roar of her tumbling frames !) 

And the smaller fry that Treason would spawn 

Are lighting Algiers like an angry dawn ! 

From stem to stern, how the pirates burn, 
Fired by the furious hands that built ! 

So to ashes forever turn 
The suicide wrecks of wrong and guilt ! 

But as we neared the city, 

By field and vast plantation, 

(Ah, millstone of our nation !) 
With wonder and with pity 

What crowds we there espied 
Of dark and wistful faces, 
Mute in their toiling-places, 

Strangely and sadly eyed — 
Haply, 'mid doubt and fear, 
Deeming deliverance near — 
(One gave the ghost of a cheer !) 



Sitgl?-?ErJj0rfl h? 



And on that dolorous strand, 

To greet the victor-brave 

One flag did welcome wave — 
Raised, ah me ! by a wretched hand 
All outworn on our cruel land — 

The withered hand of a slave ! 
But all along the levee, 

In a dark and drenching rain 
(By this, 'twas pouring heavy), 

Stood a fierce and sullen train — 

A strange and a frenzied time ! 

There were scowling rage and pain, 
Curses, howls, and hisses, 
Out of hate's black abysses — 
Their courage and their crime 
All in vain — all in vain ! 

For from the hour that the rebel stream, 
With the Crescent City lying abeam, 

Shuddered under our keel, 
Smit to the heart with self-struck sting, 
Slavery died in her scorpion-ring, 

And Murder fell on his steel. 

'Tis well to do and dare — 
But ever may grateful prayer 
Follow, as aye it ought, 
When the good fight is fought, 

When the true deed is done ; 
Aloft in heaven's pure light 
(Deep azure crossed on white), 
Our fair Church-Pennant waves 
O'er a thousand thankful braves, 

Bareheaded in God's bright sun. 

Lord of mercy and frown, 
Ruling o'er sea and shore, 
Send us such scene once more ! 
All in Line of Battle 



Ilttgle-IErljotfH 



When the black ships bear down 
On tyrant fort and town, 

'Mid cannon cloud and rattle — 
And the great guns once more 
Thunder back the roar 
Of the traitor walls ashore, 
And the traitor flags come down ! 

Henry Howard Brownell. 



ASHBY. 

[General Turner Ashby, a noted Confederate cavalry 
officer fell in an engagement at Harrisburg, Va. t June, 
1862.] 

To the brave all homage render ; 

Weep, ye skies of June ! 
With a radiance pure and tender, 

Shine, O saddened moon ! 
" Dead upon the field of glory /" — 
Hero fit for song and story — 

Lies our bold dragoon ! 

Well they learned, whose hands have slain him, 

Braver, knightlier foe 
Never fought gainst Moor or Paynim — 

Rode at Templestowe : 
With a mien how high and joyous, 
'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us 

Went he forth, we know. 

Nevermore, alas ! shall sabre 

Gleam around his crest — 
Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor, 

Stilled his manly breast — 
All unheard sweet nature's cadence, 
Trump of fame and voice of maidens ; 

Now he takes his rest. 



Itogk-IErffoeis Ha 



Earth, that all too soon hath bound him. 

Gently wrap his clay ! 
Linger lovingly around him, 

Light of dying day ! 
Softly fall, ye summer showers ; 
Birds and bees, among the flowers 

Make the gloom seem gay. 

Then, throughout the coming ages, 

When his sword is rust, 
And his deeds in classic pages — 

Mindful of her trust — 
Shall Virginia, bending lowly, 
Still a ceaseless vigil holy 

Keep above his dust ! 

John R. Thompson. 



STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY. 

[These verses, says Mr. William Gilmore Simms, "were 
found, stained with blood, in the breast of a dead soldier of 
the old Stonewall Brigade, after one of jfackson's battles in 
the Shenandoah Valley.'" Though widely copied and justly 
admired, their authorship long remained a well-kept secret ; 
but the compiler of the present volume has been so fortu- 
nate as to discover that they were unquestionably written by 
Dr. J. W. Palmer, of Maryland.} 

Come, stack arms, men ! Pile on the rails, 

Stir up the camp-fire bright ; 
No growling if the canteen fails, 

We'll make a roaring night. 
Here Shenandoah brawls along, 
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, 
To swell the Brigade's rousing song 

Of " Stonewall Jackson's way." 



an Sagle-IErfjiiea 



We see him now — the queer slouched hat 

Cocked o'er his eye askew ; 
The shrewd, dry smile ; the speech so pat, 

So calm, so blunt, so true. 
The " Blue-Light Elder " knows 'em well ; 
Says he, " That's Banks — he's fond of shell ; 
Lord save his soul ! we'll give him — " ; well ! 

That's " Stonewall Jackson's way." 

Silence ! ground arms ! kneel all ! caps off ! 

Old Massa's goin' to pray. 
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff ! 

Attention ! it's his way. 
Appealing from his native sod, 
In forma pauperis to God : 
' Lay bare Thine arm ; stretch forth Thy rod : 

Amen!" That's "Stonewall's way." 

He's in the saddle now. Fall in ! 

Steady ! the whole brigade ! 
Hill's at the ford, cut off ; we'll win 

His way out, ball and blade ! 
What matter if our shoes are worn ? 
What matter if our feet are torn ? 
1 Quick step ! we're with him before morn T 

That's " Stonewall Jackson's way." 

The sun's Dright lances rout the mists 

Of morning, and, by George ! 
Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists, 

Hemmed in an ugly gorge. 
Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before ; 
Bay'nets and grape !" hear Stonewall roar ; 
Charge, Stuart ! Pay off Ashby's score !" 

In " Stonewall Jackson's way." 

Ah ! Maiden, wait and watch and yearn 

For news of Stonewall's band ! 
Ah ! Widow, read, with eyes that burn, 

That ring upon thy hand. 



Ungte-iErljflflgi ax 



Ah ! Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on ; 
Thy life shall not be all forlorn ; 
The foe had better ne'er been born 
That gets in " Stonewall's way.V 

J. W. Palmer. 



THE BAREFOOTED BOYS. 

I. 

By the sword of St. Michael 

The old dragon through ; 
By David his sling 

And the giant he slew ; 
Let us write us a rhyme, 

As a record to tell 
How the South on a time 

Stormed the ramparts of Hell 
With her barefooted boys ! 



Had the South in her border 

A hero to spare, 
Or a heart at her altar, 

Lo ! its life's blood was there ! 
And the black battle-grime 

Might never disguise 
The smile of the South 

On the lips and the eyes 

Of her barefooted boys ! 

III. 

There's a grandeur in fight, 
And a terror the while, 

But none like the light 
Of that terrible smile — 



92 HJugk-iErfpttB 



The smile of the South, 
When the storm-cloud unrolls 
The lightning that loosens 
The wrath in the souls 

Of her barefooted boys ! 

IV. 

It withered the foe 
Like the red light that runs 
Through the dead forest leaves, 
And he fled from his guns ! 
Grew the smile to a laugh, 
Rose the laugh to a yell, 
As the iron-clad hoofs 
Clattered back into Hell 

From our barefooted boys ! 

Anonymous. 



REVEILLE. 

f Written by a sergeant in the 140th Regiment of New 
York Volunteers, who died at Potomac Station, Va., Decem- 
ber 28, 1862, aged twenty-five years. An eminent authority 
says of this poem, that it contains " almost the finest lyric 
line in the language."] 

The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse ! 
The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs, 
And the sleepy mist on the river lies, 
Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes. 

Awake ! awake ! anvake ! 

O'er field and wood and brake, 

With glories newly born, 

Comes on the blushing morn. 
Awake ! awake ! 

You have dreamed of your homes and friends all 

night ; 
You have basked in your sweethearts' smiles so 

bright ; 



Uttgle-IErlpWH »a 



Come, part with them all for a while again, — 
Be lovers in dreams ; when awake, be men. 
Turn out ! turn out ! turn out ! 

You have dreamed full long, I know. 
Turn out ! turn out ! turn out / 
The east is all aglow. 

Turn out ! turn out / 

From every valley and hill there come 
The clamoring voices of fife and drum ; 
And out in the fresh, cool morning air 
The soldiers are swarming everywhere. 
Fall in ! fall in ! fall in I 
Every man in his place. 
Fall in / fall in ! fall in / 
Each with a cheerful face. 
Fall in / fall in / 

Michael O'Connor. 



SPRING IN WAR-TIME 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air 
Which dwells with all things fair, 
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, 
Is with us once again. 

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
Into a royal court with green festoons 
The banks of dark lagoons. 

In the deep heart of every forest tree 
The blood is all aglee, 

And there's a look about the leafless bowers 
As if they dreamed of flowers. 

Yet still on every side appears the hand 
Of Winter in the land, 



94 IBttglg-jErfrflgg 



Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, 
Flushed by the season's dawn ; 

Or where, like those strange semblances we find 
That age to childhood bind, 
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, 
The brown of Autumn corn. 

As yet the turf is dark, although you know 
That, not a span below, 

A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, 
And soon will burst their tomb. 

Already, here and there, on frailest stems 
Appear some azure gems, 
Small as might deck, upon a gala day, 
The forehead of a fay. 

In gardens you may see, amid the dearth, 

The crocus breaking earth ; 

And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, 

The violet in its screen. 

But many gleams and shadows needs must pass 
Along the budding grass, 
And weeks go by, before the enamored South 
Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn 
In the sweet airs of morn ; 
One almost looks to see the very street 
Grow purple at his feet. 

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, 
And brings, you know not why, 
A feeling as when eager crowds await 
Before a palace gate 

Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start, 
If from a beech's heart 

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say — 
" Behold me ! I am May !" 



Sugte-iErffittii 95 



Ah, who would couple thoughts of war and crime 
With such a blessed time ! 
Who in the west-wind's aromatic breath 
Could hear the call of Death ! 

Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake 
The voice of wood and brake, 
Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms 
A million men to arms. 

There shall be deeper hues upon her plains 
Than all her sunlight rains, 
And every gladdening influence around 
Can summon from the ground. 

Oh ! standing on this desecrated mould, 
Methinks that I behold, 
Lifting her bloody daisies up to God, 
Spring, kneeling on the sod, 

And calling with the voice of all her rills 
Upon the ancient hills 

To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves 
Who turn her meads to graves. 

Henry Timrod. 



SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 

The poplar drops beside the way 
Its tasselled plumes of silver gray ; 
The chestnut points its great brown buds, impa- 
tient for the laggard May. 

The honeysuckles lace the wall ; 
The hyacinths grow fair and tall ; 
And mellow sun and pleasant wind and odorous 
bees are over all. 



sfi Ittglg-jErfoigg 



Down-looking in this snow-white bud, 
How distant seems the war's red flood ! 
How far remote the streaming wounds, the sicken- 
ing scent of human blood ! 

For Nature does not recognize 
This strife that rends the earth and skies ; 
No war-dreams vex the winter sleep of clover- 
heads and daisy-eyes. 

She holds her even way the same, 
Though navies sink or cities flame ; 
A snow-drop is a snow-drop still, despite the Na- 
tion's joy or shame. 

When blood her grassy altar wets, 
She sends the pitying violets 
To heal the outrage with their bloom, and cover it 
with soft regrets. 

O crocuses with rain-wet eyes, 
O tender-lipped anemones, 
What do you know of agony, and death, and blood- 
won victories ? 

No shudder breaks your sunshine trance, 
Though near you rolls, with slow advance, 
Clouding your shining leaves with dust, the anguish- 
laden ambulance. 

Yonder a white encampment hums ; 
The clash of martial music comes ; 
And now your startled stems are all a-tremble with 
the jar of drums. 

Whether it lessen or increase, 
Or whether trumpets shout or cease, 
Still deep within your tranquil hearts the happy 
bees are humming " Peace !" 



Hwjle-Erfjiiwi a? 



O flowers ! the soul that faints or grieves 
New comfort from your lips receives ; 
Sweet confidence and patient faith are hidden in 
your healing leaves. 

Help us to trust, still on and on, 
That this dark night will soon be gone, 
And that these battle-stains are but the blood-red 
trouble of the dawn — 

Dawn of a broader, whiter day 
Than ever blessed us with its ray — 
A dawn beneath whose purer light all guilt and 
wrong shall fade away. 

Then shall our nation break its bands, 
And, silencing the envious lands, 
Stand in the searching light unshamed, with spot« 
less robe and clean white hands. 

Elizabeth Akers Allen. 



AT PORT ROYAL. 

[1862.] 

The tent-lights glimmer on the land, 

The ship-lights on the sea ; 
The night-wind smooths with drifting sand 

Our track on lone Tybee. 

At last our grating keels outslide, 
Our good boats forward swing; 

And while we ride the land-locked tide, 
Our negroes row and sing. 

For dear the bondman holds his gifts 
Of music and of song : 



The gold that kindly Nature sifts 
Among his sands of wrong ; 

The power to make his toiling days 
And poor home-comforts please ; 

The quaint relief of mirth that plays 
With sorrow's minor keys. 

Another glow than sunset's fire 
Has filled the West with light, 

Where field and garner, barn and byre, 
Are blazing through the night. 

The land is wild with fear and hate, 
The rout runs mad and fast ; 

From hand to hand, from gate to gate, 
The flaming brand is passed. 

The lurid glow falls strong across 
Dark faces broad with smiles : 

Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss 
That fire yon blazing piles. 

With oar-strokes timing to their song, 

They weave in simple lays 
The pathos of remembered wrong, 

The hope of better days, — 

The triumph-note that Miriam sung, 

The joy of uncaged birds : 
Softening with Afric's mellow tongue 

Their broken Saxon words. 



SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN. 

Oh, praise an' tanks ! De Lord he come 

To set de people free ; 
An' massa tink it day ob doom, 

An' we ob jubilee. 



IHugk-IEriffltt! 99 



De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves 

He jus' as 'trong as den ; 
He say de word : we las' night slaves ; 
To-day, de Lord's freemen. 

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 

We'll hab de rice an' corn : 
Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear 
De driver blow his horn ! 

Ole massa on he trabbels gone ; 

He leaf de land behind : 
De Lord's breff blow him furder on, 

Like corn-shuck in de wind. 
We own de hoe, we own de plough, 

We own de hands dat hold ; 
We sell de pig, we sell de cow, 
But nebber chile be sold. 

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 

We'll hab de rice an' corn : 
Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear 
De driver blow his horn ! 

We pray de Lord : he gib us signs 

Dat some day we be free ; 
De norf-wind tell it to de pines, 

De wild-duck to de sea : 
We tink it when de church-bell ring, 

We dream it in de dream ; 
De rice-bird mean it when he sing, 
De eagle when he scream. 

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 

We'll hab de rice an' corn : 
Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear 
De driver blow his horn ! 

We know de promise nebber fail, 

An' nebber lie de word ; 
So like de 'postles in de jail, 

We waited for de Lord : 



ion Itogk-iirlyflfla 



An' now he open ebery door, 

An' trow away de key ; 
He tink we lub him so before. 
We lub him better free. 

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 

He'll gib de rice an' corn : 
Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you heal 
De driver blow his horn ! 



So sing our dusky gondoliers ; 

And with a secret pain, 
And smiles that seem akin to tears, 

We hear the wild refrain. 

We dare not share the negro's trust, 

Nor yet his hope deny ; 
We only know that God is just, 

And every wrong shall die. 

Rude seems the song ; each swarthy face, 

Flame-lighted, ruder still : 
We start to think that hapless race 

Must shape our good or ill ; 

That laws of changeless justice bind 

Oppressor with oppressed ; 
And, close as sin and suffering joined, 

We march to Fate abreast. 

Sing on, poor hearts ! your chant shall be 

Our sign of blight or bloom, — 
The Vala-song of Liberty, 

Or death-rune of our doom ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



gjugig-jErfrogfl i0i 



CAROLINA. 



The despot treads thy sacred sands. 
Thy pines give shelter to his bands. 
Thy sons stand by with idle hands, 

Carolina ! 
He breathes at ease thy airs of balm. 
He scorns the lances of thy palm ; 
Oh, who shall break thy craven calm, 

Carolina ! 
Thy ancient fame is growing dim, 
A spot is on thy garment's rim ; 
Give to the winds thy battle-hymn, 

Carolina ! 

II. 
Call on thy children of the hill, 
Wake swamp and river, coast and rill, 
Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, 

Carolina ! 
Cite wealth and science, trade and art, 
Touch with thy fire the cautious mart, 
And pour thee through the people's heart, 

Carolina ! 
Till even the coward spurns his fears, 
And all thy fields and fens and meres 
•Shall bristle like thy palm with spears, 

Carolina ! 

III. 
Hold up the glories of thy dead ; 
Say how thy elder children bled, 
And point to Eutaw's battle-bed, 

Carolina ! 
Tell how the patriot's soul was tried, 
And what his dauntless breast defied ; 
How Rutledge ruled and Laurens died, 

Carolina ! 



102 Itogk-iErfjoeH 



Cry ! till thy summons, heard at last, 
Shall fall like Marion's bugle-blast 
Re-echoed from the haunted Past, 
Carolina ! 

IV. 

I hear a murmur as of waves 

That grope their way through sunless caves, 

Like bodies struggling in their graves, 

Carolina ! 
And now it deepens ; slow and grand 
It swells, as, rolling to the land 
An ocean broke upon thy strand, 

Carolina ! 
Shout ! let it reach the startled Huns, 
And roar with all thy festal guns ; 
It is the answer of thy sons, 

Carolina ! 

v. 

They will not wait to hear the call ; 
From Sachem's Head to Sumter's wall 
Resounds the voice of hut and hall, 

Carolina ! 
No ! thou hast not a stain, they say, 
Or none save what the battle-day 
Shall wash in seas of blood away, 

Carolina ! 
Thy skirts indeed the foe may part, 
Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart, 
They shall not touch thy noble heart, 

Carolina ! 

VI. 

Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall 
Ten times ten thousand men must fall ; 
Thy corpse may hearken to his call, 
Carolina ! 



Jjfaglg-iErfroga 103 



When, by thy bier, in mournful throngs 
The women chant thy mortal wrongs, 
'Twill be their own funereal songs, 

Carolina! 
From thy dead breast by ruffians trod 
No helpless child shall look to God ; 
All shall be safe beneath thy sod, 

Carolina ! 

VII. 

Girt with such wills to do and bear, 
Assured in right, and mailed in prayer, 
Thou wilt not bow thee to despair, 

Carolina ! 
Throw thy bold banner to the breeze ! 
Front with thy ranks the threatening seas 
Like thine own proud armorial trees, 

Carolina ! 
Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns, 
And roar the challenge from thy guns ; 
Then leave the future to thy sons, 

Carolina ! 

Henry Timrod. 



VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION. 

[1862.] 

'Tis midnight : through my troubled dream 

Loud wails the tempest's cry ; 
Before the gale, with tattered sail, 

A ship goes plunging by. 
What name ? Where bound ? — The rocks around 

Repeat the loud halloo. 
— The good ship Union, southward bound : 

God help her and her crew I 



*P4 StI0k-IErfy0£|S 



And is the old flag flying still 

That o'er your fathers flew, 
With bands of white and rosy light, 

And field of starry blue ? 
—Ay ! look aloft ! its folds full oft 

Have braved the roaring blast, 
And still shall fly when from the sky 

This black typhoon has past ! 

Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark ! 

May I thy peril share ? 

•0 landsmen, these are fearful seas 

The brave alone may dare ! 

-Nay, ruler of the rebel deep, 

What matters wind or wave ? 
The rocks that wreck your reeling deck 

Will leave me nought to save ! 

O landsman, art thou false or true ? 

What sign hast thou to show ? 

The crimson stains from loyal veins 

That hold my heart-blood's flow ! 

Enough ! what more shall honor claim ? 

I know the sacred sign ; 
Above thy head our flag shall spread, 

Our ocean path be thine ! 

The bark sails on : the Pilgrim's Cape 

Lies low along her lee, 
Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes 

To lock the shore and sea. 
No treason here ! it cost too dear 

To win this barren realm ! 
And true and free the hands must be 

That hold the whaler's helm ! 

Still on ! Manhattan's narrowing bay 

No Rebel cruiser scars ; 
Her waters feel no pirate's keel 

That flaunts the fallen stars ! 



Sttgk-?Erfj0fl0 ins 



— But watch the light on yonder height, — 

Ay, pilot, have a care ! 
Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud 

The Capes of Delaware ! 

Say, pilot, what this fort may be 

Whose sentinels look down 
From moated walls that show the sea 

Their deep embrasures' frown ? 
The Rebel host claims all the coast, 

But these are friends, we know, 
Whose footprints spoil the " sacred soil," 

And this is ? Fort Monroe ! 

The breakers roar, — how bears the shore ? 

— The traitorous wreckers' hands 
Have quenched the blaze that poured its rays 

Along the Hatteras sands. 

Ha ! say not so ! Isee its glow! 

Again the shoals display 
The beacon light that shines by night, 

The Union Stars by day ! 

The good ship flies to milder skies, 

The wave more gently flows ; 
The softening breeze wafts o'er the seas 

The breath of Beaufort's rose. 
What fold is this the sweet winds kiss, 

Fair-striped and many-starred, 
Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls, 

The twins of Beauregard ? 

What ! heard you not Port Royal's doom? 

How the black war-ships came 
And turned the Beaufort roses' bloom 

To redder wreaths of flame ? 
How from Rebellion's broken reed 

We saw his emblem fall, 
As soon his cursed poison-weed 

Shall drop from Sumter's wall ? 



me lugb-IErljflaa 



On ! on ! Pulaski's iron hail 

Falls harmless on Tybee ! 
The good ship feels the freshening gale, — 

She strikes the open sea ; 
She rounds the point, she threads the keys 

That guard the Land of Flowers, 
And rides at last where firm and fast 

Her own Gibraltar towers ! 

The good ship Union's voyage is o'er, 

At anchor safe she swings, 
And loud and clear with cheer on cheer 

Her joyous welcome rings : 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! it shakes the wave, 

It thunders on the shore, — 
One flag, one land, one heart, one hand, 

One Nation, evermore ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes, 



THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY. 

The knightliest of the knightly race, 

Who, since the days of old, 
Have kept the lamp of chivalry 

Alight in hearts of gold ; 
The kindliest of the kindly band, 

Who, rarely hunting ease, 
Yet rode with Spotswood round the land, 

And Raleigh round the seas ; 

Who climbed the blue Virginian hills, 

Against embattled foes, 
And planted there in valleys fair 

The lily and the rose ; 
Whose fragrance lives in many lands, 

Whose beauty stars the earth, 



Sugfc-iErfjoeii mr 



And lights the hearts of many homes 
In loveliness and worth. 

We thought they slept — the sons who kept 

The names of noble sires, 
And slumbered while the darkness crept 

Around the vigil fires. 
But still the Golden Horseshoe knights 

Their old dominion keep, 
Whose foes have found enchanted ground, 

But not a knight asleep. 

Francis O. Ticknor. 



KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES. 

[May 31, 1862.] 

So that soldierly legend is still on its journey — 

That story of Kearney who knew not to yield ! 
'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and 
Birney, 
Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. 
Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose 
highest, 
Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf 
oak and pine, 
Where the aim from the thicket was surest and 
nighest, — 
No charge like Phil Kearney's along the whole line. 

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were 
solemn, 
Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held 
our ground, 
He rode down the length of the withering column, 
And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound. 



ipg Suglg-IErfoigg 



He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the pow- 
der, — 
His sword waved us on, and we answered the sign ; 
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the 
louder : 
"There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the 
whole line !" 

How he strode his brown steed ! How we saw his 
blade brighten 
In the one hand still left — and the reins in his 
teeth ! 
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, 
But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. 
Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, 

Asking where to go in — through the clearing or 
pine ? 
" O, anywhere ! Forward ! 'Tis all the same, Colonel : 
You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line !" 

O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, 1 
That hid him from sight of his brave men and 
tried! 
Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, 
The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's 
pride ! 
Yet we dream that he still — in that shadowy region 
Where the dead form their ranks at the wan 
drummer's sign — 
Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, 
And the word still is Forward! along the whole 
line. 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 

1 General Philip Kearney lost his life at the battle of Chantilly, 
Va., Sept. i, 1862, by becoming separated from his men and riding 
by mistake into the Confederate line. It was growing dark, and 
raining heavily, when Kearney, coming suddenly upon some skir- 
mishers, asked what troops they were ; but perceiving they were 
Confederates, he wheeled his horse and dashed away. Half-a- 
dozen shots rang out, and he fell dead. 



DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 

[In Memory of General Philip Kearney.] 

Close his eyes, his work is done ! 
What to him is friend or foeman, 
Rise of moon, or set of sun, 

Hand of man, or kiss of woman ? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

As man may, he fought his fight, 

Proved his truth by his endeavor ; 
Let him sleep in solemn night, 
Sleep forever and forever. 

Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Fold him in his country's stars, 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
What to him are all our wars, 

What but death bemocking folly ? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye, 

Trust him to the hand that made him. 
Mortal love weeps idly by : 

God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know/ 
Lay him low ! 

George H. Boker. 



MALVERN HILL. 
IJuly i, 1862.] 

Was there ever message sweeter 

Than that one from Malvern Hill, 
From a grim old fellow — you remember? 

Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill. 
With his rough face turned a little, 

On a heap of scarlet sand, 
They found him, just within the thicket, 

With a picture in his hand,— 

With a stained and crumpled picture 

Of a woman's aged face ; 
Yet there seemed to leap a wild entreaty, 

Young and living — tender — from the face 
When they flashed the lantern on it, 

Gilding all the purple shade, 
And stooped to raise him softly, — 

" That's my mother, sir," he said. 

" Tell her " — but he wandered, slipping 

Into tangled words and cries — 
Something about Mac and Hooker, 

Something dropping through the cries 
About the kitten by the fire, 

And mother's cranberry-pies , and there 
The words fell, and an utter 

Silence brooded in the air. 

Just as he was drifting from them, 

Out into the dark, alone, 
(Poor old mother, waiting for your message, 

Waiting with the kitten, all alone !) 
Through the hush his voice broke : •' Tell her- 

Thank you, Doctor — when you can, 
Tell her that I kissed her picture, 

And wished I'd been a better man." 



jtoglg-grtfflgg m 



Ah, I wonder if the red feet 

Of departed battle-hours 
May not leave for us their searching 

Message from those distant hours. 
Sisters, daughters, mothers, think you, 

Would your heroes, now or then, 
Dying, kiss your pictured faces, 

Wishing they'd been better men ? 

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 



THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE. 

{In answer to President Lincoln's call, issued July 2, 
1802, for 300,000 additional men, to serve three years.] 

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred 

thousand more, 
From Mississippi's winding stream and from New 

England's shore ; 
We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives 

and children dear, 
With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent 

tear; 
We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before : 
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred 

thousand more ! 

If you look across the hill-tops that meet the 

northern sky, 
Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may 

descry ; 
And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy 

veil aside, 
And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in 

pride, 
And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands 

brave music pour : 
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred 

thousand more ! 



iiz Uttglg-IErfragg 



If you look all up our valleys where the growing 
harvests shine, 

You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast form- 
ing into line ; 

And children from their mother's knees are pull- 
ing at the weeds, 

And learning how to reap and sow against their 
country's needs ; 

And a farewell group stands weeping at every cot- 
tage door : 

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred 
thousand more ! 

You have called us, and we're coming, by Rich- 
mond's bloody tide 

To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brothers' 
bones beside, 

Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the 
murderous blade, 

And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to 
parade. 

Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have 
gone before : 

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred 
thousand more ! 

Anonymous. 



OUR PRIVILEGE. 

[Owing to the remoteness of California front the scenes 
of the war, and the difficulty of transporting troops, that 
State sent but eleven regiments to the field ; although it is 
probable that many Calif ornians joined organizations from 
other States and Territories, or enlisted in the regular 
army.] 

Not ours, where battle-smoke upcurls, 

And battle-dews lie wet, 
To meet the charge that treason hurls 

By sword and bayonet ; 



l«0^-iErI|0^a na 



Not ours to guide the fatal scythe 

The fleshless Reaper wields ; 
The harvest-moon looks calmly down 

Upon our peaceful fields. 

The long grass dimples on the hill, 

The pines sing by the sea, 
And Plenty, from her golden horn, 

Is pouring far and free. 

O brothers by the farther sea ! 

Think still our faith is warm ; 
The same bright flag above us waves 

That swathed our baby form. 

The same red blood that dyes your fields 

Here throbs in patriot pride ; 
The blood that flowed where Lander fell, 

And Baker's crimson tide. 

And thus apart our hearts keep time 

With every pulse ye feel ; 
And Mercy's ringing gold shall chime 

With Valor's clashing steel. 

Bret Harte. 



THE VOLUNTEER. 

° At dawn," he said, " I bid them all farewell, 
To go where bugles call and rifles gleam." 
And with the restless thought, asleep he fell 
And glided into dream. 

A great hot plain from sea to mountain spread- 
Through it a level river slowly drawn ; 
He moved with a vast crowd, and at its head 
Streamed banners like the dawn. 



ii4 Uttglg-lafyiflg 



There came a blinding flash, a deafening roar — 
And dissonant cries of triumph and dismay ; 
Blood trickled down the river's reedy shore, 
And with the dead he lay. 

The morn broke in upon his solemn dreams, 

And still, with steady pulse and deepening eye, 
" Where bugles call," he said, " and rifles gleam, 
I follow, though I die ! " 

Wise youth ! By few is glory's wreath attained ; 

But death, or late or soon, awaiteth all. 
To fight in Freedom's cause is something gained- 
And nothing lost, to fall. 

Elbridge Jefferson Cutler. 



THE BURIAL OF LATANE. 

[Captain Latani, of 'Stuart 's Confederate Cavalry ', fell, 
at the head of his squadron, in the Pamunkey expedition, 
in Virginia, in 1862. A private letter, written at the time, 
thus describes his burial : "A few ladies, a fair-haired 
little girl with her apron filled with white flowers, and 
a few faithful slaves, stood reverently near while a pious 
Virginia matron read the solemn and beautiful burial 
service for the dead "\ 

The combat raged not long, but ours the day ; 

And, through the hosts that compassed us around, 
Our little band rode proudly on its way, 

Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned, 
Unburied on the field he died to gain — 
Single of all his men, amid the hostile slain. 

One moment on the battle's edge he stood — 
Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair ; 

The next beheld him, dabbled in his blood, 
Prostrate in death — and yet, in death how fair J 



Hugte-iErfp&flg xis 



Even thus he passed through the red gates of 
strife, 

From earthly crowns and palms, to an immor- 
tal life. 

A brother bore his body from the field, 

And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closed 
The calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed, 
And tenderly the slender limbs composed : 
Strangers, yet sisters, who, with Mary's love, 
Sat by the open tomb, and, weeping, looked 
above. 

A little child strewed roses on his bier — 

Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul, 
Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere, 

That blossomed with good actions — brief, but 
whole: 
The aged matron and the faithful slave 
Approached, with reverent feet, the hero's 
lowly grave. 

No man of God might say the burial rite 

Above the " rebel " — thus declared the foe 
That blanched before him in the deadly fight ; 
But woman's voice, with accents soft and low, 
Trembling with pity — touched with pathos — 

read 
Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead. 

**'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power /" 

Softly the promise floated on the air, 
While the low breathings of the sunset hour 
Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer. 
Gently they laid him underneath the sod, 
And left him with his fame, his country, and 
his God ! 

Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure ! 
So young, so brave, so beautiful ! He died 



ub lugk-Er^w 



As he had wished to die ; the past is sure ; 
Whatever yet of sorrow may betide 

Those who still linger by the stormy shore, 
Change cannot harm him now, nor fortune 
touch him more. 

John r. Thompson. 



KILLED AT THE FORD. 

He is dead, the beautiful youth, 

The heart of honor, the tongue of truth — 

He, the life and light of us all, 

Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, 

Whom all eyes followed with one consent, 

The cheer of whose laugh and whose pleasant word 

Hushed all murmurs of discontent. 

Only last night, as we rode along 

Down the dark of the mountain gap, 

To visit the picket-guard at the ford, 

Little dreaming of any mishap, 

He was humming the words of some old song : 

" Two red roses he had on his cap, 

And another he bore at the point of his sword." 

Sudden and swift, a whistling ball 
Came out of a wood, and the voice was still ; 
Something I heard in the darkness fall, 
And for a moment my blood grew chill ; 
I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks 
In a room where some one is lying dead ; 
But he made no answer to what I said. 

We lifted him up on his saddle again, 

And through the mire and the mist and the rain 

Carried him back to the silent camp, 

And laid him as if asleep on his bed ; 

And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp 



UttgU-IErijoeH 117 



Two white roses upon his cheeks, 
And one, just over his heart, blood-red. 

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet 
That fatal bullet went speeding- forth, 
Till it reached a town in the distant North, 
Till it reached a house in a sunny street, 
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat, 
Without a murmur, without a cry ; 
And a bell was tolled in that far-off town 
For one who had passed from cross to crown ; 
And the neighbors wondered that she should die. 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE CAPTAIN'S WIFE. 

We gathered roses, Blanche and I, for little Madge 
one morning ; 
" Like every soldier's wife," said Blanche," I dread 
a soldier's fate." 
Her voice a little trembled then, as under some 
forewarning. . . . 
A soldier galloped up the lane, and halted at the 
gate. 

" Which house is Malcolm Blake's ?" he cried ; " a 
letter for his sister !" 
And when I thanked him, Blanche inquired, " But 
none for me, his wife ?" 
The soldier played with Madge's curls, and, stoop- 
ing over, kissed her : 
" Your father was my captain, child ! — I loved 
him as my life !" 

Then suddenly he galloped off and left the rest un- 
spoken. 
I burst the seal, and Blanche exclaimed, " What 
makes you tremble so ?" 



11a Suglg-l;ri|flga 



What answer did I dare to speak ? How ought 
the news be broken ? 
I could not shield her from the stroke, yet tried 
to ease the blow. 

"A battle in the swamps," I said ; "our men were 
brave, but lost it." 
And, pausing there — " The note," I said, " is not 
in Malcolm's hand." 
And first a flush flamed through her face, and then 
a shadow crossed it. 
" Read quick, dear May ! — read all, I pray — and 
let me understand !" 

I did not read it as it stood — but tempered so the 
phrases 
As not at first to hint the worst — held back the 
fatal word, 
And half retold his gallant charge, his shout, his 
comrades' praises — 
Till like a statue carved in stone, she neither 
spoke nor stirred ! 

Oh, never yet a woman's heart was frozen so com- 
pletely ! 
So unbaptized with helping tears ! — so passion- 
less and dumb ! 
Spellbound she stood, and motionless — till little 
Madge spoke sweetly : 
" Dear mother, is the battle done ? and will my 
father come ?" 

I laid my finger on her lips, and set the child to 
playing. 
Poor Blanche! the winter in her cheek was 
snowy like her name ! 
What could she do but kneel and pray — and lin- 
ger at her praying ? . . . . 
O Christ ! when other heroes die, moan other 
wives the same ? 



Hngl£-iErI}0e*s us 



Must other women's hearts yet break, to keep the 
Cause from failing ? 
God pity our brave lovers, then, who face the 
battle's blaze ! 
And pity wives in widowhood ! — But is it unavail- 
ing ? 
O Lord ! give Freedom first, then Peace ! — and 
unto Thee be praise ! 

Theodore Tilton. 



"OUR LEFT." 

[Manassas, August 30, 1862.] 

FROM dawn to dark they stood 
That long midsummer day, 

While fierce and fast 

The battle blast 
Swept rank on rank away. 

From dawn to dark they fought, 
With legions torn and cleft ; 

And still the wide 

Black battle tide 
Poured deadlier on " Our Left." 

They closed each ghastly gap ; 
They dressed each shattered rank ; 

They knew — how well — 

That freedom fell 
With that exhausted flank. 

u Oh, for a thousand men 
Like these that melt away !" 

And down they came, 

With steel and flame, 
Four thousand to the fray ! 



12H Ittglg-JErfrflgjB 

Right through the blackest cloud 
Their lightning path they cleft ; 

And triumph came 

With deathless fame 
To our unconquered " Left." 

Ye of your sons secure, 
Ye of your dead bereft — 
Honor the brave 
Who died to save 
Your all upon " Our Left." 

Francis O. Ticknor, 



WANTED A MAN. 

[This poem so impressed President Lincoln, that he read 
it to his Cabinet at the crisis referred to, in 1862, when 
the great want of the North was a fit leader for its armies.'] 

Back from the trebly crimsoned field 

Terrible words are thunder-tost ; 
Full of the wrath that will not yield, 

Full of revenge for battles lost ! 

Hark to their echo, as it crost 
The Capital, making faces wan ; 

" End this murderous holocaust ; 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a man ! 

" Give us a man of God's own mould, 

Born to marshal his fellow-men ; 
One whose fame is not bought and sold 

At the stroke of a politician's pen ; 

Give us the man of thousands ten, 
Fit to do as well as to plan ; 

Give us a rallying-cry, and then, 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN ! 



Hwjk-Erljotti i2i 



* No leader to shirk the boasting foe, 

And to march and countermarch our brave, 
Till they fall like ghosts in the marshes low, 

And swamp-grass covers each nameless grave ; 

Nor another, whose fatal banners wave 
Aye in Disaster's shameful van ; 

Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave, — 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN ! 

" Hearts are mourning in the North, 

While the sister rivers seek the main, 
Red with our life-blood flowing forth — 

Who shall gather it up again ? 

Though we march to the battle-plain 
Firmly as when the strife began, 

Shall all our offering be in vain ? — 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN ! 

" Is there never one in all the land, 

One on whose might the Cause may lean ? 
Are all the common ones so grand, 

And all the titled ones so mean ? 

What if your failure may have been 
In trying to make good bread from bran, 

From worthless metal a weapon keen ?— 
Abraham Lincoln, find us a MAN ! 

" O, we will follow him to the death, 

Where the foeman's fiercest columns are ! 
O, we will use our latest breath, 

Cheering for every sacred star ! 

His to marshal us high and far ; 
Ours to battle, as patriots can 

When a Hero leads the Holy War ! — 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a man !" 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



__2 Uttglg-IErfrflgH 

BEYOND THE POTOMAC. 

{Lee's first invasion of Maryland, September, 1862.] 

They slept on the fields which their valor had won, 
But arose with the first early blush of the sun, 
For they knew that a great deed remained to be done, 
When they passed o'er the river. 

They rose with the sun, and caught life from his 

light— 
Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight — 
And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might, 
Marching swift for the river. 

On ! on ! like the rushing of storms thro' the hills — 
On ! on ! with a tramp that is firm as their wills — 
And the one heart of thousands grov/s buoyant, 
and thrills, 

At the thought of the river ! 

Oh, the sheen of their swords ! the fierce gleam of 

their eyes ! 
It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise, 
And king-like flash up to the sun in the skies, 
O'er the path to the river. 

But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened 
with gore, 

On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly be- 
fore, 

Like the wings of death-angels swept fast to the 
shore, 

The green shore of the river ! 

As they march from the hillside, the hamlet, the 

stream, 
Gaunt throngs whom the foeman had manacled. 

teem, 
Like men just aroused from some terrible dream, 
To pass over the river. 



luglg-grfjflgfl 123 



They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, 

yet fair, 
And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair, 
While a peal as of victory swells on the air, 
Rolling out to the river. 

And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings 

spread, 
Till the ashes of heroes seemed stirred in their bed, 
And the deep voice of passion surged up from the 
dead — 

Aye ! press on to the river ! 

On ! on ! like the rushing of storms through the 

hills, 
On ! on ! with a tramp that is firm as their wills, 
And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, 

and thrills, 

As they pause by the river. 

Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn, 
At that sight lost the touch of its aspect forlorn, 
And she turned on the foeman full statured in 
scorn, 

Pointing stern to the river. 

And Potomac flowed calm, scarcely heaving her 

breast, 
With her low-lying billows all bright in the west, 
For a charm as from God lulled the waters to rest 
Of the fair rolling river. 

Passed ! passed 1 the glad thousands march safe 

through the tide. 
(Hark, despot ! and hear the dread knell of your 

pride, 
Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the side 
Of the calm flowing river !) 



124 litglg-IErliflgg 

'Neath a blow swift and mighty the tyrant may fall, 
Vain ! vain ! to his God swells a desolate call, 
For his grave has been hollowed, and woven his pall, 
Since they passed o'er the river ! 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 

[The incidents which gave rise to this poem are said to 
have occurred during Stonewall Jacksori s march through 
Frederick City, Maryland, Just before the battle of South 
Mountain, in September, 1862. Some of the facts narrated 
having been called in question, Mr. Whittier has furnished 
the editor of this volume {November 15, 1885) with the fol- 
lowing particulars ; " Of the substantial truth of the 
heroism of Barbara Frietchie I can have no doubt. Mrs. 
E. D. N. Southworth, the novelist, of Washington, sent me 
a slip from a newspaper, stating the circumstance as it is 
given in the poem, and assured me of its substantial cor- 
rectness. Dorothea L. Dix, the philanthropic worker in 
the Union hospitals, confirmed it. From half a dozen 
other sources I had the accouftt, and all agree in the main 
facts. Barbara Frietchie was the boldest and most out- 
spoken Unionist in Frederick, a?td tnanifested it to the 
Rebel army in an unmistakable manner "\ 

Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
Clear in the cool September morn, 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, 

On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
When Lee marched over the mountain wall — 



Htt0i£-2Erlj0as 125 






Over the mountains, winding down, 
Horse and foot into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town, 

She took up the flag the men hauled down ; 

In her attic window the staff she set, 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 

" Halt !" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast ; 
" Fire !" — out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash ; 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf ; 

She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

" Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your country's flag," she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came. ; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman's deed and word * 



126 ISagb-IErtjflws 



" Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog ! March on !" he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet ; 

All day long that free flag tost 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 

And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. 

Honor to her ! and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave ! 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law ; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier, 



THE HEART OF THE WAR. 

Peace in the clover-scented air, 

And stars within the dome ; 
And underneath, in dim repose, 

A plain New England home. 
Within, a murmur of low tones 

And sighs from hearts oppressed, 
Merging in prayer at last, that brings 

The balm of silent rest. 



Hugte-IErljira 12? 



"I've closed a hard day's work, Marty, 

The evening chores are done ; 
And you are weary with the house, 

And with the little one. 
But he is sleeping sweetly now, 

With all our pretty brood ; 
So come and sit upon my knee, 

And it will do me good. 

" Oh, Marty ! I must tell you all 

The trouble in my heart, 
And you must do the most you can 

To take and bear your part. 
You've seen the shadow on my face, 

You've felt it day and night ; 
For it has fill'd our little home, 

And banished all its light. 

'* I did not mean it should be so, 

And yet I might have known 
That hearts that live as close as ours 

Can never keep their own. 
But we are fallen on evil times, 

And, do whate'er I may, 
My heart grows sad about the war, 

And sadder every day. 

" I think about it when I work, 

And when I try to rest, 
And never more than when your head 

Is pillowed on my breast ; 
For then I see the camp-fires blaze, 

And sleeping men around, 
Who turn their faces toward their homes. 

And dream upon the ground. 

" I think about the dear, brave boys, 
My mates in other years, 
Who pine for home and those they love, 
Till I am choked with tears. 



i2H IBttgk-iErljflflB 



With shouts and cheers they marched away 

On glory's shining track ; 
But, ah ! how long, how long they stay,— 

How few of them come back ! 

" One sleeps beside the Tennessee, 

And one beside the James, 
And one fought on a gallant ship 

And perished in its flames. 
And some, struck down by fell disease, 

Are breathing out their life ; 
And others, maimed by cruel wounds, 

Have left the deadly strife. 

" Ah, Marty ! Marty ! only think 

Of all the boys have done 
And suffered in this weary war, — 

Brave heroes, every one ! 
Oh, often, often, in the night, 
I hear their voices call : 
* Come on and help us ! Is it right 
That we should bear it all ? ' 

" And when I kneel and try to pray, 

My thoughts are never free, 
But cling to those who toil and fight 

And die for you and me. 
And when I pray for victory, 

It seems almost a sin 
To fold my hands and ask for what 

I will not help to win. 

" Oh, do not cling to me and cry, 

For it will break my heart ; 
I'm sure you'd rather have me die 

Than not to bear my part. 
You think that some should stay at home 

To care for those away ; 
But still I'm helpless to decide 

If I should go or stay. 



JSuglg-iErijogfl v& 



" For, Marty, all the soldiers love, 

And all are loved again ; 
And I am loved, and love, perhaps, 

No more than other men. 
I cannot tell — I do not know — 

Which way my duty lies, 
Or where the Lord would have me build 

My fire of sacrifice. 

" I feel — I know — I am not mean ; 

And though I seem to boast, 
I'm sure that I would give my life 

To those who need it most. 
Perhaps the Spirit will reveal 

That which is fair and right ; 
So, Marty, let us humbly kneel 

And pray to Heaven for light.". . • 

Peace in the clover-scented air, 

And stars within the dome ; 
And, underneath, in dim repose, 

A plain New England home. 
Within, a widow in her weeds 

From whom all joy is flown, 
Who kneels among her sleeping babes, 

And weeps and prays alone ! 

Josiah Gilbert Holland. 



CLARIBEL'S PRAYER. 

The day, with cold gray feet, clung shivering to 
the hills, 
While o'er the valley still night's rain-fringed cur- 
tains fell ; 
But waking Blue-eyes smiled : " 'Tis ever as God 
wills ; 
He knoweth best, and be it rain or shine, 'tis well; 
Praise God !" cried always little Claribel. 



lan ISugle-IErfjxWig 



Then sunk she on her knees ; with eager, lifted 
hands 
Her rosy lips made haste some dear request to 
tell: 
" O Father, smile, and save this fairest of all lands, 
And make her free, whatever hearts rebel ; 
Amen ! Praise God !" cried little Claribel. 

" And, Father," still arose another pleading prayer, 
" O save my brother, in the rain of shot and shell ! 

Let not the death-bolt, with its horrid streaming 
hair, 
Dash light from those sweet eyes I love so well ; 
Amen ! Praise God !" wept little Claribel. 

" But, Father, grant that when the glorious fight is 
done, 
And up the crimson sky the shouts of freemen 
swell, 
Grant that there be no nobler victor 'neath the sun 
Than he whose golden hair I love so well ; 
Amen ! Praise God !" cried little Claribel. 

When the gray and dreary day shook hands with 
grayer night, 
The heavy air was filled with clangor of a bell ; 
" Oh, shout !" the Herald cried, his worn eyes 
brimmed with light ; 
" 'Tis victory ! Oh, what glorious news to tell !" 
" Praise God ! He heard my prayer," cried Clar- 
ibel. 

"But pray you, soldier, was my brother in the fight 

And in the fiery rain ? Oh, fought he brave and 

well ?" 

" Dear child," the Herald said, " there was no 

braver sight 

Than his young form, so grand 'mid shot and 

shell ;" 
" Praise God 1" cried trembling little Claribel. 



Uugle-IErijon* i3i 



" And rides he now with victor's plume of red, 
While trumpets' golden throats his coming steps 
foretell ?" 
The Herald dropped a tear. " Dear child," he 
softly said, 
" Thy brother evermore with conquerors shall 

dwell." 
" Praise God ! He heard my prayer," cried Clar- 
ibel. 

" With victors, wearing crowns and bearing palms," 

he said, 

And snow of sudden fear upon the rose lips fell ; 

" Oh, sweetest Herald, say my brother lives !" she 

plead ; 

"Dear child, he walks with angels, who in 

strength excel ; 
Praise God, who gave this glory, Claribel." 

The cold gray day died sobbing on the weary hills, 
While bitter mourning on the night winds rose 
and fell. 
" O child," the Herald wept, " 'tis as the dear Lord 
wills ; 
He knoweth best, and be it life or death, 'tis well." 
" Amen ! Praise God !" sobbed little Claribel. 
M. L. Parmelee. 



" PICCIOLA." 

It was a sergeant old and gray, 

Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage, 
Went tramping in an army's wake, 

Along the turnpike of the village. 

For days and nights the winding host 

Had through the little place been marching, 

And ever loud the rustics cheered, 
Till every throat was hoarse and parching. 



132 ISttgle-IErfpttH 



The squire and farmer, maid and dame, 
All took the sight's electric stirring, 

And hats were waved, and staves were sung, 
And 'kerchiefs white were countless whirling 

They only saw a gallant show 
Of heroes stalwart under banners, 

And in the fierce heroic glow 

'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannahs. 

The sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs, 
Where he behind in step was keeping ; 

But glancing down beside the road 
He saw a little maid sit weeping. 

" And how is this ?" he gruffly said, 
A moment pausing to regard her ; 

" Why weepest thou, my little chit ?" 
And then she only cried the harder. 

" And how is this, my little chit ?" 

The sturdy trooper straight repeated — 

" When all the village cheers us on, 
That you, in tears, apart are seated ? 

" We march two hundred thousand strong ! 

And that's a sight, my baby beauty, 
To quicken silence into song, 

And glorify the soldier's duty." 

" It's very, very grand, I know," 
The little maid gave soft replying; 

" And father, mother, brother, too, 
All say ' hurrah ' while I am crying. 

" But think— O Mr. Soldier, think 

How many little sisters' brothers 
Are going all away to fight, 

Who may be killed, as well as others !" 



3ttgl*-£dpi?0 133 



"Why, bless thee, child," the sergeant said, 
His brawny hand her curls caressing, 

" Tis left for little ones like you 

To find that war's not all a blessing." 

And " bless thee !" once again he cried ; 

Then cleared his throat and looked indignant, 
And marched away with wrinkled brow 

To stop the straggling tear benignant. 

And still the ringing shouts went up 

From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage , 

The pall behind the standard seen 
By one alone, of all the village. 

The oak and cedar bend and writhe 

When roars the wind through gap and braken : 
But 'tis the tenderest reed of all 

That trembles first when earth is shaken. 

Anonymous. 



COME UP FROM THE FIELDS, FATHER. 

Come up from the fields, father, here's a letter from 

our Pete ; 
And come to the front door, mother, here's a letter 

from thy dear son. 

Lo, 'tis autumn. 

Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and 
redder, 

Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves flutter- 
ing in the moderate wind, 

Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes 
on the trellis'd vines, 

(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines ? 

Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately 
buzzing ? ) 



n4 Uu0l£-iErfj0£a 



Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after 
the rain, and with wondrous clouds, 

Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and 
the farm prospers well. 

Down in the fields all prospers well ; 

But now from the fields come, father, come at the 

daughter's call, 
And come to the entry, mother, to the front door 

come right away. 

Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, 

her steps trembling, 
She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust 

her cap. 

Open the envelope quickly ! 

O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd, 

O a strange hand writes for our dear son. O stricken 

mother's soul ! 
All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she 

catches the main words only, 
Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, 

cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital, 
At present low, but will soon be better. 

Ah, now the single figure to me, 

Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities 

and farms, 
Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very 

faint, 
By the jamb of a door leans. 

Grieve not so, dear inother (the just-grown daughter 
speaks through her sobs, 

The little sisters huddle around speechless and dis- 
may 'd), 

See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon 
be better / 



Itogfe-iEdftfejg 135 



Alas ! poor boy, he will never be better (nor maybe 
needs to be better, that brave and simple soul), 

While they stand at home at the door he is dead 
already, 

The only son is dead. 

But the mother needs to be better, 

She with thin form presently drest in black, 

By day her meals untouch'd, then at night fitfully 

sleeping, often waking, 
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one 

deep longing, 
O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from 

life escape and withdraw, 
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son. 
Walt Whitman. 



NOT YET. 

O COUNTRY, marvel of the earth f 
O realm to sudden greatness grown ! 

The age that gloried in thy birth, 
Shall it behold thee overthrown ? 

Shall traitors lay that greatness low ? 

No, land of Hope and Blessing, No ! 

And we who wear thy glorious name, 
Shall we, like cravens, stand apart, 

When those whom thou hast trusted aim 
The death-blow at thy generous heart ? 

Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo ! 

Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No ! 

And they who founded, in our land, 
The power that rules from sea to sea, 

Bled they in vain, or vainly planned 
To leave their country great and free? 

Their sleeping ashes, from below, 

Send up the thrilling murmur, No ! 



i3B Uugte-iEriyoaBf 



Knit they the gentle ties which long 
These sister States were proud to wear, 

And forged the kindly links so strong 
For idle hands in sport to tear — 

For scornful hands aside to throw ? 

No, by our fathers' memory, No ! 

Our humming marts, our iron ways, 

Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest, 

The hoarse Atlantic, with his bays, 
The calm, broad Ocean of the West, 

And Mississippi's torrent-flow, 

And loud Niagara, answer, No ! 

Not yet the hour is nigh when they 
Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit, 

Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say, 
" Proud country, welcome to the pit ! 

So soon art thou, like us, brought low !" 

No, sullen groups of shadows, No ! 

For now, behold, the arm that gave 

The victory in our fathers' day, 
Strong, as of old, to guard and save — 

That mighty arm which none can stay — 
On clouds above and fields below, 
Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No ! 

William Cullen Bryant. 



THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862. 

The flags of war like storm-birds fly, 
The charging trumpets blow ; 

Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, 
No earthquake strives below. 

And calm and patient Nature keeps 
Her ancient promise well, 



Sugfe-iErfpiefli 127 



Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps 
The battle's breath of hell. 

And still she walks in golden hours 

Through harvest-happy farms, 
And still she wears her fruits and flowers 

Like jewels on her arms. 

What mean the gladness of the plain, 

This joy of eve and morn, 
The mirth that shakes the beard of grain, 

And yellow locks of corn ? 

Ah ! eyes may well be full of tears, 

And hearts with hate are hot ; 
But even-paced come round the years, 

And Nature changes not. 

She meets with smiles our bitter grief, 

With songs our groans of pain ; 
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf 

The war-field's crimson stain. 

Still in the cannon's pause we hear 

Her sweet thanksgiving psalm ; 
Too near to God for doubt or fear, 

She shares the eternal calm. 

She knows the seed lies safe below 

The fires that blast and burn ; 
For all the tears of blood we sow, 

She waits the rich return. 

She sees, with clearer eye than ours, 

The good of suffering born — 
The hearts that blossom like her flowers, 

And ripen like her corn. 

Oh, give to us, in times like these, 

The vision of her eyes ; 
And make her fields and fruited trees 

Our golden prophecies 1 



13B lltglg-JEritflflg 

Oh, give to us her finer ear ! 

Above this stormy din 
We too would hear the bells of cheer 

Ring peace and freedom in. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



NEVER OR NOW. 

[1862.] 

Listen, young heroes ! your country is calling ! 

Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true 1 
Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling, 

Fill up the ranks that have opened for you ! 

You whom the fathers made free and defended, 
Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame ! 

You whose fair heritage spotless descended, 
Leave not your children a birthright of shame ! 

Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasp- 



ing 



Wait not till Honor lies wrapped in his pall ! 
Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the hands' clasping ; 
" Off for the wars !" is enough for them all. 

Break from the arms that would fondly caress you ! 

Hark ! 'tis the bugle-blast, sabres are drawn ! 
Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you, 

Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone ! 

Never or now ! cries the blood of a nation, 

Poured on the turf where the red rose should 
bloom ; 

Now is the day and the hour of salvation, — 
Never or now ! peals the trumpet of doom ! 



JSwjle-iErJjofla 139 



Never or now ! roars the hoarse-throated cannon 
Through the black canopy blotting the skies ; 

Never or now ! flaps the shell-blasted pennon 
O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland lies ! 

From the foul dens where our brothers are dying, 
Aliens and foes in the land of their birth, — 

From tr^e rank swamps where our martyrs are lying, 
Pleading in vain for a handful of earth, — 

From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered, 
Furrowed and ridged by the battle-field's plough, 
Comes the loud summons ; too long you have slum- 
bered, 
Hear the last Angel-trump — Never or Now ! 
Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



CLOUDS IN THE WEST. 

HARK ! on the wind that whistles from the West 
A manly shout for instant succor comes, 

From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast, 
With rage-indented drums ; 

Who dare for child, wife, country, stream and strand, 
Though but a fraction to the swarming foe, 

There, at the flooded gateways of the land, 
To stem a torrent's flow. 

To arms ! brave sons of each embattled State, 
Whose queenly standard is a Southern star : 

Who would be free must ride the lists of Fate 
On Freedom's victor-car ! 

Forsake the field, the shop, the mart, the hum 
Of craven traffic, for the mustering clan : 



i4n ISttglg-IErfrtftg 

The dead themselves are pledged that you shall 
come 
And prove yourself a man. 

Blow, summoning trumpets, a compulsive stave 
Through all the bounds from Beersheba to Dan ; 

Come out ! come out ! who scorns to be a slave, 
Or claims to be a man ! 

Hark ! on the breezes whistling from the West 
A manly shout for instant succor comes, 

From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast, 
With rage-indented drums ; 

Who charge and cheer amid the murderous din, 
Where still your battle-flags unbended wave, 

Dying for what your fathers died to win, 
And you must fight to save. 

A. J. Requier. 



A WORD WITH THE WEST. 

[On the appointment of General Joseph E. Johnston to 
the command of the Confederate armies in the West, 
November, 1862.] 

Once more to the breach for the Land of the West ! 
And a leader we give, of our bravest and best, 

Of his State and his army the pride ; 
Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest, 

And gleams in the glaive at his side. 

For his courage is keen and his honor is bright 
As the trusty Toledo he wears to the fight, 

Newly wrought in the forges of Spain, 
And this weapon, like all he has brandished for 
Right, 

Will never be dimmed by a stain. 



ImjIg-jErfyogis i4i 



He leaves the loved soil of Virginia behind, 
Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined, 

Where lie the fresh fields of his fame ; 
Where the murmurous pines, as they sway in the 
wind, 

Seem ever to whisper his name. 

The Johnstons have always borne wings on their 

spurs, 
And their motto a noble distinction confers, 

" Ever ready " — for friend or for foe — 
With a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirs 

The large manly heart of our Joe. 

We recall that a former bold chief of the clan 
Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van 

On Shiloh's illustrious day ; 
And with reason we reckon our Johnston the man 

The dark bloody debt to repay. 

There is much to be done : if not glory to seek, 
There's a just and a terrible vengeance to wreak 

For crimes of a terrible dye, 
While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak 

In a chorus rise up to the sky. 

For the Wolf of the North we once drove to his den, 
That quailed in affright 'neath the stern glance of 
men, 

With his pack has returned to the spoil ; 
Then come from the hamlet, the mountain, the glen, 

And drive him again from the soil ! 

Brave-born Tennesseans, so loyal, so true, 

Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, of you 

Our leader has never a doubt ; 
You will troop by the thousand the chase to renew 

The day when his bugles ring out. 



142 %uglg-j;ri|flgH 



But ye " Hunters" so famed " of Kentucky" of yore, 
Where, where are the rifles that kept from your door 

The wolf and the robber as well ? 
Of a truth, you have never been laggard before 

To deal with a savage so fell. 

Has the love you once bore to your country grown 

cold ? 
Has the fire on the altar died out ? Do you hold 

Your lives than your freedom more dear ? 
Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold, 

Or basely take counsel of fear ? 

We will not believe it ! Kentucky, the land 
Of a Clay, will not tamely submit to the brand 

That disgraces the dastard, the slave ; 
The hour of redemption draws nigh — is at hand — 

Her own sons her own honor shall save ! 

Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call, 
With the rush of your rivers when tempests appall, 

And the torrents their sources unseal ; 
And this be the watchword of one and of all — 

" Remember the butcher, McNiel !" 

Then once more to the breach for the land of the 

West ! 
Strike home for your hearts — for the lips you love 
best- 
Follow on where your Leader you see ! 
One flash of his sword when the foe is hard pressed, 
And the Land of the West thall be free ! 

John R. Thompson. 



%ugl*-&lpi?0 14a 



THE BIVOUAC IN THE SNOW. 

Halt ! — the march is over, 

Day is almost done ; 
Loose the cumbrous knapsack, 

Drop the heavy gun. 
Chilled and wet and weary, 

Wander to and fro, 
Seeking wood to kindle 

Fires amidst the snow. 

Round the bright blaze gather, 

Heed not sleet nor cold ; 
Ye are Spartan soldiers, 

Stout and brave and bold. 
Never Xerxian army 

Yet subdued a foe 
Who but asked a blanket 

On a bed of snow. 

Shivering, 'midst the darkness, 

Christian men are found, 
There devoutly kneeling 

On the frozen ground — 
Pleading for their country, 

In its hour of woe — 
For its soldiers marching 

Shoeless through the snow. 

Lost in heavy slumbers, 

Free from toil and strife, 
Dreaming of their dear ones — 

Home, and child, and wife, 
Tentless they are lying, 

While the fires burn low — 
Lying in their blankets, 

'Midst December's snow. 

Margaret J. Preston. 



144 Hn$U3£ttymB 

FREDERICKSBURG. 

[December 13, 1862.] 

The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, 
And on the churchyard by the road, I know- 
It falls as white and noiselessly as snow. 
'Twas such a night two weary summers fled ; 
The stars, as now, were waning overhead. 
Listen ! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow 
Where the swift currents of the river flow 
Past Fredericksburg : far off the heavens are red 
With sudden conflagration : oil yon height, 
Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath : 
A signal-rocket pierces the dense night, 
Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath : 
Hark ! — the artillery massing on the right, 
Hark ! — the black squadrons wheeling down to 



Death ! 



Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



KILLED AT FREDERICKSBURG. 

Fred Mason came beside my fire, 

But turned with light, familiar warning : 

" Sleep, though your bed be cold and damp, 
And I will meet you in the morning." 

For fraught with doubt the day had passed, 
And, noiselessly at dusk parading, 

We slept upon the frozen hills 

That shook with Burnside's cannonading. 

While through the gloom our long black guns 
Their messages of death deliver, 

The word runs low from lip to lip : 
*' At break of day we cross the river." 



BttgMirfplgfl 145 



The long night passed ; ten thousand eyes 
Turned to the wintry heaven o'er them ; 

Then left their painful sleep behind, 

To meet the dreamless sleep before them. 

From bluff to bluff the batteries growled, 
And all day long we faced their thunder, — 

But others, in their time, shall tell 
The story of that bloody blunder. 

When Fredericksburg was won at last, 
Just where the bugle sounded " Forward !" 

Fred Mason lay, his breast in front, 

His whitened features looking Nor'ward. 

His fingers in the trampled soil, 

Convulsed and blue, were tightly clinching ; 
His dead eyes, staring to the sky, 

Yet stared defiant and unflinching. 

Dead eyes ! — when last they flashed in mine, 
Our hearts were lighter than a feather : 

Well, God forgive me ! but I wish 
We both had fallen there together. 

Enough for thee, one soldier mourns 
A friend misfortune never altered, 

A lip of cheer, a soul of fire, 

A head and hand that never faltered. 

In peace, below the blood-stained height, 
This waving wood, this flowing river, 

Shall lull at last thy restless brain 
To sleep forever and forever. 

Above thy breast the quail shall glide, 
The rabbit cull his dewy clover ; 

And long as heaven's wind shall blow, 
The holly bend thy slumber over. 



i4B Uttglg-jErfoigfi 

Round rocky isle and laurelled banks 
The Rappahannock, softly dashing, 

Sound sweet as on the fatal morn 
When last we listened to its plashing. 

Here shall the solemn cricket slide 
And chant amid thy grassy cover ; 

And Nature, like a maiden, watch 
The turf that wraps her daring lover. 

Sleep on, sleep on ; no more this vale 
Wakes to the signal's hellish warning : 

" Sleep, though your bed be cold and damp, 
And I will meet you in the morning." 

Chauncey Hickox, 



CHRISTMAS NIGHT OF '62. 

[In the Army of Northern Virginia^ 

The wintry blast goes wailing by, 
The snow is falling overhead ; 
I hear the lonely sentry's tread, 

And distant watch-fires light the sky. 

Dim forms go flitting through the gloom ; 
The soldiers cluster 'round the blaze, 
To talk of other Christmas days, 

And softly speak of home and home. 

My sabre swinging overhead 

Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow, 
While fiercely drives the blinding snow, 

And memory leads me to the dead. 

My thoughts go wandering to and fro, 
Vibrating 'twixt the Now and Then ; 
I see the low-brow'd home agen, 

The old hall wreathed with mistletoe. 



9ngl*-&lpi*0 U7 



And sweetly from the far-off years 
Comes borne the laughter faint and low, 
The voices of the Long Ago ! 

My eyes are wet with tender tears. 

I feel agen the mother-kiss, 
I see agen the glad surprise 
That lightened up the tranquil eyes 

And brimmed them o'er with tears of bliss, 

As, rushing from the old hall-door, 
She fondly clasp'd her wayward boy — 
Her face all radiant with the joy 

She felt to see him home once more. 

My sabre swinging on the bough 

Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow, 
While fiercely drives the blinding snow 

Aslant upon my sadden'd brow. 

Those cherished faces all are gone ! 
Asleep within the quiet graves 
Where lies the snow in drifting waves, — 

And I am sitting here alone. 

There's not a comrade here to-night 
But knows that lov'd ones far away 
On bended knees this night will pray : 

" God bring our darling from the fight." 

But there are none to wish me back, 
For me no yearning prayers arise, 
The lips are mute and closed the eyes — 

My home is in the bivouac. 

W. Gordon MacCabe. 



14a Htt0b-3;rfj0*fl 



BOSTON HYMN. 

\Read at the Emancipation Meeting in Boston^ January 
I, 1863.] 

The word of the Lord by night 
To the watching Pilgrims came, 

As they sat by the sea-side, 

And filled their hearts with flame. 

God said, I am tired of kings, 

I suffer them no more ; 
Up to my ear the morning brings 

The outrage of the poor. 

Think ye I made this ball 

A field of havoc and war, 
Where tyrants great and tyrants small 

Might harry the weak and poor ? 

My angel, — his name is Freedom, — 

Choose him to be your king ; 
He shall cut pathways east and west, 

And fend you with his wing. 

Lo ! I uncover the land 

Which I hid of old time in the West, 
As the sculptor uncovers his statue 

When he has wrought his best ; 

I show Columbia, of the rocks 
Which dip their foot in the seas 

And soar to the air-borne flocks 
Of clouds and the boreal fleece. 

I will divide my goods ; 

Call in the wretch and slave : 
None shall rule but the humble, 

And none but Toil shall have. 



Su0l*-?Erff0Ea 149 



I will have never a noble, 

No lineage counted great : 
Fishers and choppers and ploughmen 

Shall constitute a state. 

Go, cut down trees in the forest, 
And trim the straightest boughs ; 

Cut down trees in the forest, 
And build me a wooden house. 

Call the people together, 

The young men and the sires, 

The digger in the harvest-field, 
Hireling and him that hires ; 

And here in a pine state-house 
They shall choose men to rule 

In every needful faculty, 

In church and state and school. 

Lo, now ! if these poor men 
Can govern the land and sea, 

And make just laws below the sun, 
As planets faithful be. 

And ye shall succor men ; 

'Tis nobleness to serve ; 
Help them who cannot help again : 

Beware from right to swerve. 

I break your bonds and masterships, 

And I unchain the slave : 
Free be his heart and hand henceforth, 

As wind and wandering wave. 

I cause from every creature 

His proper good to flow : 
As much as he is and doeth, 

So much he shall bestow, 



150 jittglg-iErfjflgfi 



But, laying his hands on another 

To coin his labor and sweat, 
He goes in pawn to his victim 

For eternal years in debt. 

To-day unbind the captive, 

So only are ye unbound ; 
Lift up a people from the dust, 

Trump of their rescue, sound ! 

Pay ransom to the owner, 

And fill the bag to the brim. 
Who is the owner ? The slave is owner, 

And ever was. Pay him. 

O North ! give him beauty for rags, 
And honor, O South ! for his shame ; 

Nevada ! coin thy golden crags 
With Freedom's image and name. 

Up ! and the dusky race 

That sat in darkness long, — 
Be swift their feet as antelopes, 

And as behemoth strong. 

Come, East and West and North, 

By races, as snow-flakes, 
And carry my purpose forth, 

Which neither halts nor shakes. 

My will fulfilled shall be, 

For, in daylight or in dark, 
My thunderbolt has eyes to see 

His way home to the mark. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



SugU-iEr^a i5i 



THE OLD SERGEANT. 

[This poem, which has been widely copied and is 
printed usually without the prelude, first appeared, in the 
form in which it is here given, as the Carrier's New 
Year' s Address of the Louisville Courier- Journal, in 
1863.] 

The Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads 

With which he used to go 
Rhyming the glad rounds of the happy New Years 

That are now beneath the snow : 

For the same awful and portentous Shadow 

That overcast the earth, 
And smote the land last year with desolation, 

Still darkens every hearth. 

And the Carrier hears Beethoven's mighty death- 
march 

Come up from every mart, 
And he hears and feels it breathing in his bosom, 

And beati7ig in his heart. 

And to-day, a scarred and weather-beaten veteran, 

Again he comes along, 
To tell the story of the Old Year's struggles 

In another New Years song. 

And the song is his, but not so with the story ; 

For the story, you must know, 
Was told in prose to Assistant-Surgeon Austin, 

By a soldier of Shiloh : 

By Robert Burton, who was brought up on the 
Adams, 

With his death-wound in his side ; 
And who told the story to the Assistant-Surgeon 

On the same night that he died. 



152 18ugl0-1Erfj0?a 



But the singer feels it will better suit the ballad, 

If all should deem it right, 
To tell the story as if what it speaks of 

Had happened but last flight. 



" Come a little nearer, Doctor — thank you ; let me 

take the cup : 
Draw your chair up — draw it closer ; just another 

little sup ! 
Maybe you may think I'm better; but I'm pretty 

well used up — 
Doctor, you've done all you could do, but I'm just 

a-going up ! 

" Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it ain't much 

use to try," — 
" Never say that," said the Surgeon, as he smothered 

down a sigh ; 
" It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say 

die !" 
" What you say will make no difference, Doctor, 

when you come to die. 

" Doctor, what has been the matter ?" " You were 

very faint, they say ; 
You must try to get to sleep now." " Doctor, have 

I been away?" 
" Not that anybody knows of !" " Doctor — Doctor, 

please to stay ! 
There is something I must tell you, and you won't 

have long to stay ! 

" I have got my marching orders, and I'm ready 

now to go ; 
Doctor, did you say I fainted ? — but it couldn't ha' 

been so, 
For as sure as I'm a Sergeant, and was wounded at 

Shiloh, 
I've this very night been back there, on the old field 

of Shiloh J 



Sitgk-IEripira 153 



" This is all that I remember : The last time the 

Lighter came, 
And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises 

much the same, 
He had not been gone five minutes before something 

called my name : 
' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton ! ' — just 

that way it called my name. 

"And I wondered who could call me so distinctly 

and so slow, 
Knew it couldn't be the Lighter, he could not have 

spoken so, 
And I tried to answer, ' Here, sir ! ' but I couldn't 

make it go ; 
For I couldn't move a muscle, and I couldn't make 

it go. 

" Then I thought : it's all a nightmare, all a hum- 
bug and a bore ; 

Just another foolish grape-vine — and it won't come 
any more ; 

But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way 
as before : 

' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton ! ' — even 
louder than before. 

" That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of 
light, 

And I stood beside the river, where we stood that 
Sunday night, 

Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs oppo- 
site, 

When the river was perdition, and all hell was 
opposite ! 

" And the same old palpitation came again in all its 
power, 

And I heard a Bugle sounding, as from some celes- 
tial Tower ; 



154 IBugfe-IErfjflflBi 



And the same mysterious voice said : ' It is THE 

Eleventh Hour! 
Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton— It is 

the Eleventh Hour ! ' 

" Dr. Austin ! — what day is this ?" " It is Wednes- 
day night, you know." 

" Yes — to-morrow will be New Year's, and a right 
good time below ! 

What time is it, Dr. Austin ?" " Nearly twelve." 
" Then don't you go ! 

Can it be that all this happened — all this — not an 
hour ago ? 

" There was where the gunboats opened on the dark 

rebellious host ; 
And where Webster semi-circled his last guns upon 

the coast ; 
There were still the two log-houses, just the same, 

or else their ghost — 
And the same old transport came and took me 

over — or its ghost ! 

" And the old field lay before me, all deserted, far 

and wide : 
There was where they fell on Prentiss — there 

McClernand met the tide ; 
There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where 

Hurlbut's heroes died — 
Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and 

kept charging till he died. 

"There was where Lew Wallace showed them he 

was of the canny kin, 
There was where old Nelson thundered, and where 

Rousseau waded in ; 
There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and we all 

began to win, — 
There was where the grape-shot took me, just as 

we began to win. 



lugMxrfjflflBi iss 



" Now, a shroud of snow and silence over every- 
thing was spread ; 

And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on 
my head, 

I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I 
was dead, — 

For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon 
the dead ! 

"Death and silence! — Death and silence! all 

around me as I sped ! 
And behold, a mighty Tower, as if builded to the 

dead, 
To the Heaven of the heavens lifted up its mighty 

head, 
Till the Stars and Stripes of Heaven all seemed 

waving from its head ! 

" Round and mighty-based it towered up into the 

infinite — 
And I knew no mortal mason could have built a 

shaft so bright ; 
For it shone like solid sunshine, and a winding 

stair of light 
Wound around it and around it till it wound clear 

out of sight ! 

" And, behold, as I approached it — with a rapt and 

dazzled stare — 
Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending 

the great stair — 
Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of — ' Halt ! ' 

and ' Who goes there ? ' 
'I'm a friend, ' I said, 'if you are ! ' ' Then advance, 

sir, to the Stair ! ' 

" I advanced ! That sentry, Doctor, was Elijah 

Ballantyne ! 
First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed 

the line ! 



i5B Uttgle-IErljoaa 



1 Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome ! Welcome 

by that countersign ! ' 
And he pointed to the scar there, under this old 

cloak of mine. 

" As he grasped my hand I shuddered, thinking" 

only of the grave ; 
But he smiled, and pointed upward, with a bright 

and bloodless glaive : 

• That's the way, sir, to Headquarters. ' * What 

Headquarters ? ' 'Of the Brave ! ' 
' But the great Tower ? ' ' That was builded of the 
great deeds of the Brave ! ' 

" Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform 

of light ; 
At my own so old and battered, and at his so new 

and bright ; 

* Ah ! ' said he, ' you have forgotten the new uniform 

to-night ! 
1 Hurry back — for you must be here at just twelve 
o'clock to-night ! ' 

" And the next thing I remember, you were sitting 
there, and I 

Doctor — did you hear a footstep? Hark! — God 
bless you all ! Good-by ! 

Doctor, please to give my musket and my knap- 
sack, when I die, 

To my son — my son that's coming — he won't get 
here till I die ! 

" Tell him his old father blessed him — as he never 

did before — 
And to carry that old musket " Hark ! a knock 

is at the door ! 

" Till the Union " See ! it opens ! 

" Father ! Father ! speak once more !" 
" Bless you !" — gasped the old gray Sergeant. And 

he lay and said no more. 

FORCEYTHE WlLLSON. 



!u0b-l:rij0?i5 157 



READY. 

Loaded with gallant soldiers, 

A boat shot in to the land, 
And lay at the right of Rodman's Point, 

With her keel upon the sand. 

Lightly, gayly, they came to shore, 

And never a man afraid ; 
When sudden the enemy opened fire 

From his deadly ambuscade. 

Each man fell flat on the bottom 
Of the boat ; and the captain said : 

" If we lie here, we all are captured, 
And the first who moves is dead !" 

Then out spoke a negro sailor, 

No slavish soul had he : 
" Somebody's got to die, boys, 

And it might as well be me !" 

Firmly he rose, and fearlessly 

Stepped out into the tide ; 
He pushed the vessel safely off, 

Then fell across her side : 

Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets, 
As the boat swung clear and free; 

But there wasn't a man of them that day 
Who was fitter to die than he ! 

Phoebe Cary. 



*5B luglg-grfogfl 



THE DEAD CANNONEER. 

[General Pelham, C. S. A., killed at Kelly's Ford, Va. % 
March 17, 1863. J 

JUST as the spring came laughing through the strife, 

With all its gorgeous cheer, 
In the bright April of historic life, 

Fell the great cannoneer. 

The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath 

His bleeding country weeps ; 
Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death, 

Our young Marcellus sleeps. 

Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome 

Curbing his chariot steeds, 
The knightly scion of a Southern home 

Dazzled the land with deeds. 

Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt, 

The champion of the truth, 
He bore his banner to the very front 

Of our immortal youth. 

A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow, 

The fiery pang of shells, — 
And there's a wail of immemorial woe 

In Alabama dells. 

The pennon drops that led the sacred band 

Along the crimson field ; 
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand 

Over the spotless shield. 

We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face ; 

While round the lips and eyes, 
Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace 

Of a divine surprise. 



lU0l^-&I|0^0 159 



O mother of a blessed soul on high ! 

Thy tears may soon be shed ; 
Think of thy boy with princes of the sky, 

Among the Southern dead ! 

How must he smile on this dull world beneath. 

Fevered with swift renown, — 
He, with the martyr's amaranthine wreath 

Twining the victor's crown ! 

James R. Randall. 



THE BAND IN THE PINES. 
[Heard after Pelham died.] 

Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease ! 

Cease with your splendid call ; 
The living are brave and noble, 

But the dead were bravest of all ! 

They throng to the martial summons, 

To the loud triumphant strain ; 
And the dear bright eyes of long-dead friends 

Come to the heart again ! 

They come with the ringing bugle, 
And the deep drum's mellow roar ; 

Till the soul is faint with longing 
For the hands we clasp no more ! 

Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease ! 

Or the heart will melt in tears, 
For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips, 

And the voices of old years ! 

John Esten Cooke. 



CHARLESTON. 
[April, 1863.] 

Calm as that second summer which precedes 

The first fall of the snow, 
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, 

The city bides the foe. 

As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud, 

Her bolted thunders sleep, — 
Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, 

Looms o'er the solemn deep. 

No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur 

To guard the holy strand ; 
But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war, 

Above the level sand. 

And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched, 

Unseen, beside the flood, — 
Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched, 

That wait and watch for blood. 

Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, 

Walk grave and thoughtful men, 
Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade 

As lightly as the pen. 

And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim 

Over a bleeding hound, 
Seem each one to have caught the strength of him 

Whose sword she sadly bound. 

Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, 

Day patient following day, 
Old Charleston looks from roof and spire and dome, 

Across her tranquil bay. 



Ittgjg-grijflgg nu 



Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands 

And spicy Indian ports, , 
Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, 

And summer to her courts. 

But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, 

The only hostile smoke 
Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, 

From some frail floating oak. 

Shall the Spring dawn, and she, still clad in smiles, 

And with an unscathed brow, 
Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, 

As fair and free as now ? 

We know not ; in the temple of the Fates 

God has inscribed her doom : 
And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits 

The triumph or the tomb. 

Henry Timrod. 



THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR. 

[Bombardment of Fort Sumter by the South Atlantic 
Squadron, U. S. Navy, April 7, 1863.] 



Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe 

April day, 
The Northman's mailed " Invincibles " steamed up 

fair Charleston Bay ; 
They came in sullen file and slow, low-breasted on 

the wave, 
Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as 

the grave. 



iB2 !ugle-l;rlj0?0 



ii. 

A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread 

monsters drew 
More closely to the game of death across the 

breezeless blue, 
And twice ten thousand hearts of those who 

watched the scene afar, 
Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's 

broadening star. 

III. 

Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect 
stands, 

The ready lanyards firmly grasped in bold, untrem- 
bling hands, 

So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern 
heroic guise, 

They looked like forms of statued stone with burn- 
ing human eyes ! 

IV. 

Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately 
rustling fold, 

Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's 
ruddy gold, — 

They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely- 
echoing cheers, 

And then — once more, dark, breathless, hushed, 
wait the grim cannoneers. 



Onward — in sullen file and slow, low glooming on 
the wave, 

Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as 
the grave, 

When sudden, shivering up the calm, o'er startled 
flood and shore, 

Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder- 
wrath of yore ! 



lU0k-?Erl|0^0 1B3 



VI. 

Ha ! brutal Corsairs ! though ye come thrice-cased 
in iron mail, 

Beware the storm that's opening now, God's ven- 
geance guides the hail ! 

Ye strive, the ruffian types of Might, 'gainst law and 
truth and Right : 

Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a 
mightier Might ! 

VII. 

No empty boast ! for while we speak, more furious, 

wilder, higher, 
Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues 

of fire ; 
The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven 

seems rent above ; 
Fight on, O knightly gentlemen ! for faith and 

home and love ! 

VIII. 

There's not in all that line of flame, one soul that 

would not rise 
To seize the victor's wreath of blood, though death 

must give the prize — 
There's not in all this anxious crowd that throngs 

the ancient town 
A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one 

despot down. 

IX. 

The strife grows fiercer ! ship by ship the proud 
armada sweeps, 

Where hot from Sumter's raging breast the vol- 
leyed lightning leaps ; 

And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere burned the 
sunset light, 

Crawls in the gloom of baffled hate beyond the field 
of fight ! 



*frs Stt0k-i:r!j0?!S 



O glorious Empress of the Main ! from out thy 

storied spires 
Thou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy 

festal fires, — 
Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath 

nerved thy dauntless sons, 
And thou in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's 

angels near the guns ! 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 



TWILIGHT ON SUMTER. 

[In the spring and summer of 1863, Fort Sumter, in 
possession of the Confederates since the surrender of Major 
Anderson, two years before, was bombarded by the Federal 
fleet, and by the artillery on Morris Island, until reduced 
almost to ruins.] 

Still and dark along the sea 

Sumter lay ; 
A light was overhead, 
As from burning cities shed, 
And the clouds were battle-red, 

Far away. 
Not a solitary gun 
Left to tell the fort had won 

Or lost the day ! 
Nothing but the tattered rag 
Of the drooping rebel flag, 
And the sea-birds screaming round it in their play- 
How it woke one April morn, 

Fame shall tell; 
As from Moultrie, close at hand, 
And the batteries on the land, 
Round its faint but fearless band 

Shot and shell 



!U0l£-1Erfj0*B 1H5 



Raining hid the doubtful light ; 
But they fought the hopeless fight 

Long and well, 
(Theirs the glory, ours the shame !) 
Till the walls were wrapt in flame, 
Then their flag was proudly struck, and Sumter fell ! 

Now — oh, look at Sumter now, 

In the gloom ! 
Mark its scarred and shattered walls, 
(Hark ! the ruined rampart falls !) 
There's a justice that appalls 

In its doom ; 
For this blasted spot of earth 
Where rebellion had its birth 

Is its tomb ! 
And when Sumter sinks at last 
From the heavens, that shrink aghast, 
Hell shall rise in grim derision and make room ! 
Richard Henry Stoddard. 



KEENAN'S CHARGE. 

[At the battle of Chancellor sville, Va., May 2, 1863, 
it became necessary to bring a Federal battery into posi- 
tion to resist a sudden onset by Stonewall yackson. To 
gain a few minutes'' time, Major Peter Keenan, of the 
Eighth Pennsylvania Cavalry, was ordered to charge the 
enemy ; and, with his four hundred men, he rode against 
ten thousand, in a charge as gallant as that of the Light 
Brigade.} 

By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, 
Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyes 
For an instant — clear, and cool, and still ; 
Then, with a smile, he said : " I will." 



ififi Sugle-IErljofts 



" Cavalry, charge ! " Not a man of them shrank. 

Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, 

Rose joyously, with a willing breath — 

Rose like a greeting hail to death. 

Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed ; 

Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed ; 

Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, 

In their faded coats of the blue and yellow ; 

And above in the air, with an instinct true, 

Like a bird of war their pennon flew. 

With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, 
And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, 
And strong brown faces bravely pale 
For fear their proud attempt shall fail, 
Three hundred Pennsylvanians close 
On twice ten thousand gallant foes. 

Line after line the troopers came 

To the edge of the wood that was ring'd with flame ; 

Rode in and sabred and shot — and fell : 

Nor came one back his wounds to tell. 

And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall 

In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall. 

While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung 

'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. 

Line after line ; ay, whole platoons, 

Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons 

By the maddened horses were onward borne 

And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn ; 

As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. 

So they rode, till there were no more to ride. 

But over them, lying there, shattered and mute, 
What deep echo rolls ? — 'Tis a death salute 
From the cannon in place ; for, heroes, you braved 
Your fate not in vain : the army was saved ! 

Over them now — year following year- 
Over their graves, the pine-cones fall, 



lugU-Erlfow i67 



And the whippoorwill chants his spectre-call ; 
But they stir not again : they raise no cheer : 
They have ceased. But their glory shall never 

cease, 
Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. 
The rush of their charge is resounding still, 
That saved the army at Chancellorsville. 

George Parsons Lathrop, 



DEATH OF STONEWALL JACKSON. 

[On the evening of the first day's fight at Chancellors- 
ville, Va., May 2, 1863, where Stonewall Jackson had ac- 
complished his famous fiank movement around the Union 
right, he rode out to inspect the ground for the morrow's 
battle, and in the darkness was surprised and shot by some 
of his own pickets. He died on the 10th of May following.] 

Not 'mid the lightning of the stormy fight, 

Not in the rush upon the vandal foe, 
Did kingly Death, with his resistless might, 
Lay the great leader low. 

His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke 
In the full sunshine of a peaceful town ; 
When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak 
That propped our cause went down. 

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, 

Recording all his grand, heroic deeds, 
Freedom herself is writhing with the wound, 
And all the country bleeds. 

He entered not the Nation's Promised Land 

At the red belching of the cannon's mouth; 
But broke the House of Bondage with his hand — 
The Moses of the South ! 



ihb Strgfr-ErljflflBi 



O gracious God ! not gainless is the loss : 

A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown ; 
And while his country staggers with the Cross, 
He rises with the Crown. 

Harry L. Flash. 



"THE BRIGADE MUST NOT KNOW, SIR!" 

" Who've ye got there ?" — " Only a dying brother, 

Hurt in the front just now " 
" Good boy ! he'll do. Someooay tell his mother 

Where he was killed, and how." 

"Whom have you there?" — "A crippled courier, 
Major, 
Shot by mistake, we hear. 
He was with Stonewall." — " Cruel work they've 
made here ; 
Quick with him to the rear !" 

" Well, who comes next ?" — " Doctor, speak low, 
speak low, sir ; 
Don't let the men find out ! 
It's Stonewall !" — " God !" — " The brigade must 
not know, sir, 
While there's a foe about !" 

Whom have we here — shrouded in martial manner, 
Crowned with a martyr's charm ? 
A grand dead hero, in a living banner, 
Born of his heart and arm : 

The heart whereon his cause hung — see how 
clingeth 
That banner to his bier ! 
The arm wherewith his cause struck — hark ! how 
ringeth 
His trumpet in their rear ! 



Sugle-iEdjiwa iea 



What have we left ? His glorious inspiration, 

His prayers in council met. 
Living, he laid the first stones of a nation ; 

And dead, he builds it yet. 

J. W. Palmer. 



UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES. 

[This poem is founded upon the following incident, taken 
from an account of Stonewall facksoris last hours: ii A 
few moments before his death, he called out in his delirium, 
' Order A. P. Hill to prepare for action ; . . . pass the 
infantry to the front ; . . . tell Major Hawks . . . ' 
Here the sentence was left unfinished. But soon after, a 
sweet smile overspread his face, and he murmured quietly, 
with an air of relief, ' Let us cross the river and rest 
under the shade of the trees? These were his last words."] 

What are the thoughts that are stirring his breast ? 

What is the mystical vision he sees ? 

— " Let us pass over the river, and rest 

Under the shade of the trees." 

Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks ? 

Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease ? 
Is it a moment's cool halt that he asks 
Under the shade of the trees ? 

Is it the gurgle of waters whose flow 

Ofttime has come to him, borne on the breeze, 
Memory listens to, lapsing so low, 
Under the shade of the trees ? 

Nay — though the rasp of the flesh was so sore, 

Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these, 
Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward Shore, 
Under the shade of the trees ; — 



irn luglg-IErljngfi 



Caught the high psalms of ecstatic delight — 

Heard the harps harping, like soundings of seas- 
Watched earth's assoiled ones walking in white 
Under the shade of the trees ? 

Oh, was it strange he should pine for release, 

Touched to the soul with such transports as these,- 
He who so needed the balsam of peace, 
Under the shade of the trees ? 

Yea, it was noblest for him — it was best 

(Questioning naught of our Father's decrees), 
There to pass over the river and rest 
Under the shade of the trees ! 

Margaret J. Preston. 



THE BLACK REGIMENT. 

[Port Hudson, La., June, 1863.] 

Dark as the clouds of even, 
Ranked in the western heaven, 
Waiting the breath that lifts 
All the dread mass, and drifts 
Tempest and falling brand 
Over a ruined land ; — 
So still and orderly, 
Arm to arm, knee to knee, 
Waiting the great event, 
Stands the Black Regiment. 

Down the long dusky line 
Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine ; 
And the bright bayonet, 
Bristling and firmly set, 
Flashed with a purpose grand, 
Long ere the sharp command 



Hagte-iErljjtta in 



Of the fierce rolling drum 
Told them their time had come, 
Told them what work was sent 
For the Black Regiment. 

" Now," the flag-sergeant cried, 
" Though death and hell betide, 
Let the whole nation see 
If we are fit to be 
Free in this land ; or bound 
Down, like the whining hound, — 
Bound with red stripes of pain 
In our old chains again !" 
Oh, what a shout there went 
From the Black Regiment! 

" Charge /" Trump and drum awoke, 
Onward the bondmen broke ; 
Bayonet and sabre-stroke 
Vainly opposed their rush. 
Through the wild battle's crush. 
With but one thought aflush, 
Driving their lords like chaff, 
In the guns' mouths they laugh ; 
Or at the slippery brands 
Leaping with open hands, 
Down they tear man and horse, 
Down in their awful course ; 
Trampling with bloody heel 
Over the crashing steel, 
All their eyes forward bent, 
Rushed the Black Regiment. 

" Freedom !" their battle-cry — 
" Freedom ! or leave to die !" 
Ah ! and they meant the word, 
Not as with us 'tis heard, 
Not a mere party shout : 
They gave their spirits out ; 



172 lksgl*-?Erifii?H 



Trusted the end to God, 
And on the gory sod 
Rolled in triumphant blood. 

Glad to strike one free blow, 
Whether for weal or woe ; 
Glad to breathe one free breath, 
Though on the lips of death. 
Praying — alas ! in vain ! — 
That they might fall again, 
So they could once more see 
That burst to liberty ! 
This was what " freedom" lent 
To the Black Regiment. 

Hundreds on hundreds fell ; 
But they are resting well ; 
Scourges and shackles strong 
Never shall do them wrong. 

Oh, to the living few, 
Soldiers, be just and true ! 
Hail them as comrades tried ; 
Fight with them side by side ; 
Never, in field or tent, 
Scorn the Black Regiment. 

George H. Boker. 



A NAMELESS GRAVE. 

"A soldier of the Union mustered out," 
Is the inscription on an unknown grave 
At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave, 
Nameless and dateless ; sentinel or scout 
Shot down in skirmish, or disastrous rout 
Of battle, when the loud artillery drave 
Its iron wedges through the ranks of brave 
And doomed battalions, storming the redoubt. 



Sugte-lxfjKttli X?3 



Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea 
In thy forgotten grave ! with secret shame 
I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn, 
When I remember thou hast given for me 
All that thou hadst, thy life, thy very name, 
And I can give thee nothing in return. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



MISSING. 

IN the cool sweet hush of a wooded nook, 

Where the May-buds sprinkle the green old 
mound, 
And the winds and the birds and the limpid brook 

Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound, 
Who lies so still in the plushy moss, 

With his pale cheek pressed on a breezy pillow, 
Couched where the lights and the shadows cross 

Through the flickering fringe of the willow, — 
Who lies, alas ! 

So still, so chill, in the whispering grass ? 

A soldier, clad in the Zouave dress, 

A bright-haired man, with his lips apart, — 
One hand thrown up o'er his frank, dead face, 

And the other clutching his pulseless heart, — 
Lies there in the shadows cool and dim, 

His musket swept by a trailing bough, 
With a careless grace in each tranquil limb, 

And a wound in his manly brow — 
A wound, alas ! 

Whence the warm blood drips in the quiet grass. 

And the violets peer from their dusky beds, 
With a tearful dew in their great pure eyes ; 

And the lilies quiver their shining heads, 
Their pale lips full of a sad surprise ; 



ir4 Hurjle-IErljorH 



And the lizard darts through the glistening fern, 
And the squirrel rustles the branches hoary, 

Strange birds fly out with a cry, to bathe 
Their wings in the sunset glory ; 
While the shadows pass 
O'er the quiet face and the dewy grass. 

God pity the bride who waits at home 

With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes, 
Dreaming the sweet old dream of love, 

While her lover is walking in Paradise. 
God strengthen her heart as the days go by, 

And the long, drear nights of her vigil follow ; 
Nor bird nor wind nor whispering grass 

May breathe the tale of the hollow : 
Alas ! alas ! 

The secret is safe in the woodland grass. 

Anonymous {Southern). 



SOMEBODY'S DARLING. 

INTO a ward of the whitewashed halls 

W T here the dead and the dying lay, 
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, 

Somebody's darling was borne one day — 
Somebody's darling, so young and brave ; 

Wearing yet on his sweet pale face — 
Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave — 

The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. 

Matted and damp are the curls of gold 

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow, 
Pale are the lips of delicate mould — 

Somebody's darling is dying now. 
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow 

Brush his wandering waves of gold ; 
Cross his hands on his bosom now — 

Somebody's darling is still and cold. 



Kiss him once for somebody's sake, 

Murmur a prayer soft and low ; 
One bright curl from its fair mates take — 

They were somebody's pride, you know. 
Somebody's hand hath rested here — 

Was it a mother's, soft and white ? 
Or have the lips of a sister fair 

Been baptized in their waves of light ? 

God knows best. He has somebody's love, 

Somebody's heart enshrined him there, 
Somebody wafts his name above, 

Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. 
Somebody wept when he marched away, 

Looking so handsome, brave, and grand ; 
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, 

Somebody clung to his parting hand. 

Somebody's watching and waiting for him, 

Yearning to hold him again to her heart ; 
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, 

And the smiling, childlike lips apart. 
Tenderly bury the fair young dead — 

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear. 
Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head : 

" Somebody's darling slumbers here." 

Maria La Coste {Southern). 



"HE'LL SEE IT WHEN HE WAKES." 

[In one of the battles in Virginia, a gallant young Missis- 
sippian had fallen ; and at night, just before burying him, 
there came a letter from his betrothed. One of the burial- 
group took the letter and laid it upon the breast of the dead 
soldier, with the words : " Bury it with him. He* 11 see it 
when he wakes."\ 

Amid the clouds of battle-smoke 

The sun had died away, 
And where the storm of battle broke 

A thousand warriors lay. 



ire Huglg-IErfyflgjg 

A band of friends upon the field 
Stood round a youthful form, 
Who, when the war-cloud's thunder pealed, 
Had perished in the storm. 
Upon his forehead, on his hair, 

The coming moonlight breaks, 
And each dear brother standing there 
A tender farewell takes. 

But ere they laid him in his home 

There came a comrade near, 
And gave a token that had come 

From her the dead held dear. 
A moment's doubt upon them pressed, 

Then one the letter takes, 
And lays it low upon his breast— 
" He'll see it when he wakes." 

O thou who dost in sorrow wait, 

Whose heart with anguish breaks, 
Though thy dear message came too late. 
" He'll see it when he wakes." 

No more amid the fiery storm 

Shall his strong arm be seen ; 
No more his young and manly form 

Tread Mississippi's green ; 
And e'en thy tender words of love — 

The words affection speaks — 
Came all too late ; but oh ! thy love 
" Will see them when he wakes." 
No jars disturb his gentle rest, 
No noise his slumber breaks, 
But thy words sleep upon his breast — 
" He'll see them when he wakes." 

Frank Lee. 



IBugk-IEripwi 177 



A GEORGIA VOLUNTEER. 

Far up the lonely mountain-side 

My wandering footsteps led ; 
The moss lay thick beneath my feet, 

The pine sighed overhead. 
The trace of a dismantled fort 

Lay in the forest nave, 
And in the shadow near my path 

I saw a soldier's grave. 

The bramble wrestled with the weed 

Upon the lowly mound, 
The simple headboard, rudely writ, 

Had rotted to the ground ; 
I raised it with a reverent hand, 

From dust its words to clear ; 
But time had blotted all but these : 

" A Georgia Volunteer." 

I saw the toad and scaly snake 

From tangled covert start, 
And hide themselves among the weeds 

Above the dead man's heart ; 
But undisturbed, in sleep profound, 

Unheeding, there he lay ; 
His coffin but the mountain soil, 

His shroud, Confederate gray. 

I heard the Shenandoah roll 
Along the vale below, 

I saw the Alleghanies rise 
Toward the realms of snow. 

The " Valley Campaign " rose to mind- 
Its leader's name — and then 

I knew the sleeper had been one 
Of Stonewall Jackson's men. 



ira 18u0i?4Erlj0£0 



Yet whence he came, what lip shall say — 

Whose tongue will ever tell 
What desolated hearths and hearts 

Have been because he fell ? 
What sad-eyed maiden braids her hair — 

Her hair which he held dear ? 
One lock of which, perchance, lies with 

The Georgia Volunteer ! 

What mother, with long-watching eyes 

And white lips cold and dumb, 
Waits with appalling patience for 

Her darling boy to come ? 
Her boy ! whose mountain grave swells up 

But one of many a scar 
Cut on the face of our fair land 

By gory-handed war. 

What fights he fought, what wounds he wore, 

Are all unknown to fame ; 
Remember, on his lonely grave 

There is not even a name ! 
That he fought well and bravely too, 

And held his country dear, 
We know, else he had never been 

A Georgia Volunteer. 

He sleeps — what need to question now 

If he were wrong or right ? 
He knows, e'er this, whose cause was just 

In God the Father's sight. 
He wields no warlike weapons now, 

Returns no foeman's thrust ; 
Who but a coward would revile 

An honest soldier's dust ? 

Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll 

Adown thy rocky glen ; 
Above thee lies the grave of one 

Of Stonewall Jackson's men. 



lugle-IErlfoea in* 



Beneath the cedar and the pine, 

In solitude austere, 
Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies 

A Georgia Volunteer. 

Mary Ashley Townsend. 



BY THE POTOMAC. 

The soft new grass is creeping o'er the graves 

By the Potomac ; and the crisp ground-flower 

Lifts its blue cup to catch the passing shower ; 

The pine-cone ripens, and the long moss waves 

Its tangled gonfalons above our braves. 

Hark, what a burst of music from yon bower ! — 

The Southern nightingale that, hour by hour, 

In its melodious summer madness raves. 

Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand, 

With what sweet voices, Nature seeks to screen 

The awful Crime of this distracted land, — 

Sets her birds singing, while she spreads her green 

Mantle of velvet where the Murdered lie, 

As if to hide the horror from God's eye. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



THE VOICES OF THE GUNS. 

Within a green and shadowy wood, 
Circled with Spring, alone I stood : 
The nook was peaceful, fair, and good. 

The wild-plum blossoms lured the bees, 
The birds sang madly in the trees, 
Magnolia scents were on the breeze. 



inn Huglg-IErfrngjg 

All else was silent ; but the ear 
Caught sounds of distant bugle clear, 
And heard the bullets whistle near, — 

When from the winding river's shore 

The Rebel guns began to roar, 

And ours to answer, thundering o'er ; 

And, echoed from the wooded hill, 

Repeated and repeated still, 

Through all my soul they seemed to thrill ; 

For, as their rattling storm awoke, 

And loud and fast the discord broke, 

In rude and trenchant words they spoke : 

" We hate I" boomed fiercely o'er the tide; 
" We fear not !" from the other side ; 
" We strike /" the Rebel guns replied. 

Quick roared our answer : " We defend !" 
" Our rights /" the battle-sounds contend ; 
" The rights of all !" we answer send. 

" We conquer /" rolled across the wave ; 
" We persevere !" our answer gave ; 
" Our chivalry /" they wildly rave. 

" Ours are the brave /" " Be ours the free !' 
" Be ours the slave, the masters we I" 
" Onus their blood no more shall be!" 

As when some magic word is spoken 
By which a wizard spell is broken, 
There was a silence at that token. 

The wild birds dared once more to sing, 
I heard the pine bough's whispering, 
And trickling of a silver spring. 

Then, crashing forth with smoke and din, 
Once more the rattling sounds begin ; 
Our iron lips roll forth : " We win 1" 



And dull and wavering in the gale 
That rushed in gusts across the vale 
Came back the faint reply: " We fail!" 

And then a word, both stern and sad, 

From throat of huge Columbiad : 

" Blind fools and traitors ! Ye are mad !" 

Again the Rebel answer came, 
Muffled and slow, as if in shame : 
"All, all is lost/" in smoke and flame. 

Now bold and strong and stern as Fate 
The Union guns sound forth : " We wait !" 
Faint comes the distant cry : " Too late /" 

" Return, return !" our cannon said ; 

And, as the smoke rolled overhead, 

" We dare not /" was the answer dread. 

Then came a sound both loud and clear, 
A Godlike word of hope and cheer : 
" Forgiveness!" echoed far and near; 

As when beside some death-bed still 
We watch, and wait God's solemn will, 
A bluebird warbles his soft trill. 

I clenched my teeth at that blest word, 
And, angry, muttered, " Not so, Lord ! 
The only answer is the sword !" 

I thought of Shiloh's tainted air, 

Of Richmond's prisons, foul and bare, 

And murdered heroes, young and fair,— • 

Of block and lash and overseer, 
And dark, mild faces pale with fear, 
Of baying hell-hounds panting near. 

But then the gentle story told 
My childhood in the days of old 
Rang out its lessons manifold. 



is2 Vngl»4Eciputf 



O prodigal and lost ! arise, 

And read the welcome blest that lies 

In a kind Father's patient eyes ! 

Thy elder brother grudges not 

The lost and found should share his lot, 

And wrong in concord be forgot. 

Thus mused I, as the hours went by, 
Till the relieving guard drew nigh, 
And there was challenge and reply. 

And as I hastened back to line, 

It seemed an omen half divine 

That " Concord " was the countersign. 

Anonymous. 



MUSIC IN CAMP. 

Two armies covered hill and plain, 
Where Rappahannock's waters 

Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 
Of battle's recent slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 

In meads of heavenly azure ; 
And each dread gun of the elements 

Slept in its high embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew, it made 

No forest leaf to quiver ; 
And the smoke of the random cannonade 

Rolled slowly from the river. 

And now where circling hills looked down 

With cannon grimly planted, 
O'er listless camp and silent town 

The golden sunset slanted. 



Igmjtg-grliogjg ib3 



When on the fervid air there came 
A strain, now rich, now tender ; 

The music seemed itself aflame 
With day's departing splendor. 

A Federal band, which eve and morn 
Played measures brave and nimble, 

Had just struck up with flute and horn 
And lively clash of cymbal. 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks ; 

Till, margined by its pebbles, 
One wooded shore was blue with " Yanks," 

And one was gray with " Rebels." 

Then all was still ; and then the band, 
With movement light and tricksy, 

Made stream and forest, hill and strand, 
Reverberate with " Dixie." 

The conscious stream, with burnished glow, 
Went proudly o'er its pebbles, 

But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 
With yelling of the Rebels. 

Again a pause ; and then again 

The trumpet pealed sonorous, 
And " Yankee Doodle" was the strain 

To which the shore gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew 

To kiss the shining pebbles ; 
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue 

Defiance to the Rebels. 

And yet once more the bugle sang 

Above the stormy riot ; 
No shout upon the evening rang — 

There reigned a holy quiet. 



184 $U0l?-l:rff0*0 



The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood 
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles ; 

All silent now the Yankees stood, 
All silent stood the Rebels. 

No unresponsive soul had heard 

That plaintive note's appealing, 
So deeply " Home, Sweet Home " had stirred 

The hidden founts of feeling. 

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees, 

As by the wand of fairy, 
The cottage 'neath the live oak trees, 

The cabin by the prairie. 

Or cold, or warm, his native skies 

Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, 

His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after rain 

In April's tearful weather, 
The vision vanished as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But Memory, waked by Music's art, 

Expressed in simple numbers, 
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, 

Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of Music shines — 

That bright celestial creature — 
Who still 'mid War's embattled lines 

Gave this one touch of Nature. 

John R. Thompson. 



2Jtt0l?-l:rfj0£fi 105 



" HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY ?" 

[The U. S. Sanitary Commission was a benevolent or- 
ganization, supported by contributions from the Northern 
States, which did most efficient work for the soldiers in 
field and hospital, sending its trained nurses and supplies 
of medicines and food wherever there zvas sickness or suf- 
fering.] 

Down the picket-guarded lane 
Rolled the comfort-laden wain, 
Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, 

Soldier-like and merry : 
Phrases such as camps may teach, 
Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech, 
Such as " Bully !" " Them's the peach !" 

" Wade in, Sanitary !" 

Right and left the caissons drew 
As the car went lumbering through, 
Quick succeeding in review 

Squadrons military ; 
Sunburnt men with beards like frieze, 
Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these . 
" U. S. San. Com." " That's the cheese V 

" Pass in, Sanitary !" 

In such cheer it struggled on 
Till the battle front was won ; 
Then the car, its journey done, 

Lo ! was stationary ; 
And where bullets whistling fly 
Came the sadder, fainter cry : 
" Help us, brothers, ere we die ! — 

Save us, Sanitary !" 

Such the work. The phantom flies, 
Wrapped in battle-clouds that rise ; 
But the brave — whose dying eyes, 
Veiled and visionary, 



iflfi !ugl?-iEr!j0£ii 



See the jasper gates swung wide, 
See the parted throng outside — 
Hears the voice to those who ride : 
" Pass in, Sanitary !" 

Bret Harte. 



GETTYSBURG. 
[Julyi, 2, and 3, 1863.] 

Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave sol- 
diers of the North, 
And from the field your arms have won to-day go 

proudly forth ! 
For now, O comrades dear and leal — from whom 

no ills could part, 
Through the long years of hopes and fears, the 

nation's constant heart — 
Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have 

striven in vain, 
Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path 

again, — 
At last we have our heart's desire, from them we 

met have wrung 
A victory that round the world shall long be told 

and sung! 
It was the memory of the past that bore us through 

the fray, 
That gave the grand old Army strength to conquer 

on this day ! 

Oh, now forget how dark and red Virginia's rivers 

flow, 
The Rappahannock's tangled wilds, the glory and 

the woe ; 



Sugte-iErfntta ib? 



The fever-hung encampments, where our dying 

knew full sore 
How sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall 

cool no more ; 
The fields we fought, and gained, and lost ; the 

lowland sun and rain 
That wasted us, that bleached the bones of our 

unburied slain ! 
There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die 

no lack, 
And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on 

our track ; 
But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight 

shall mark afar 
The paths of yon retreating hosts that shun the 

northern star. 

At night, before the closing fray, when all the front 

was still, 
We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill. 
Ours was the dauntless Second Corps ; and many a 

soldier knew 
How sped the fight, and sternly thought of what 

was yet to do. 
Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with 

bated breath 
Of Buford's stand beyond the town, of gallant 

Reynolds' death, 
Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by mur- 
derous valleys swept, — 
How well the Stone, the Iron, brigades their bloody 

outposts kept : 
'Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, 

heroes all, 
And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like 

them to fall. 

And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of that 
grim day just done, 



ihh Hwjle-lzrfjofla 



The fight by Round Top's craggy spur — of all the 

deadliest one ; 
It saved the left : but on the right they pressed us 

back too well, 
And like a field in Spring the ground was ploughed 

with shot and shell. 
There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks 

crushed and red, 
And there, between them, side by side, the wounded 

and the dead : 
The mangled corpses fallen above — the peaceful 

dead below, 
Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of 

years ago ; 
It seemed their waking, wandering shades were 

asking of our slain, 
What brought such hideous tumult now where they 

so still had lain ! 

Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow 

morning-tide, 
And call of trump and roll of drum from height to 

height replied. 
Hark ! from the east already goes up the rattling 

din ; 
The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, 

right well the day begin ! 
They whirl fierce Ewell from their front ! Now we 

of the Second pray, 
As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre 

might to-day. 
But all was still from hill to hill for many a breath- 
less hour, 
While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered 

in his power ; 
And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not 

rest or fear, 
And along the lines, where'er they came, went up 

the ringing cheer. 



jtofllg-jErtjOgB ibs 



'Twas past the hour of nooning ; the Summer skies 
were blue ; 

Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from 
view; 

So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant 
valley lay, 

It brought to mind our Northern homes and mead- 
ows far away ; 

When the whole western ridge at once was fringed 
with fire and smoke, 

Against our lines from sevenscore guns the dread- 
ful tempest broke ! 

Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the 
crest, 

And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east 
and west ; 

Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sul- 
phur-cloud, 

And the cries of mangled men and horse go up 
beneath its shroud. 

The guns are still : the end is nigh : we grasp our 

arms anew ; 
O now let every heart be stanch and every aim be 

true! 
For look ! from yonder wood that skirts the valley's 

further marge, 
The flower of all the Southern host move to the final 

charge. 
By Heaven ! it is a fearful sight to see their double 

rank 
Come with a hundred battle-flags — a mile from 

flank to flank ! 
Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thou- 
sand men abreast ; 
Their standards wave — their hearts are brave — 

they hasten not, nor rest, 
But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward 

press, and nigher, 



ism lugk-IErfjofla 



And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their 
fire! 

Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all 

our wrath has vent ! 
They die, they wither ; through and through their 

wavering lines are rent. 
But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own 

race and land, 
Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight 

us hand to hand : 
Vain, vain ! give way, as well ye may — the crimson 

die is cast ! 
Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength 

is failing fast ; 
They yield, they turn, they fly the field : we smite 

them as they run ; 
Their arms, their colors, are our spoil ; the furious 

fight is done ! 
Across the plain we follow far and backward push 

the fray : 
Cheer ! cheer ! the grand old Army at last has won 

the day ! 

Hurrah ! the day has won the cause ! No gray- 
clad host henceforth 

Shall come with fire and sword to tread the high- 
ways of the North ! 

'Twas such a flood as when ye see, along the 
Atlantic shore, 

The great Spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling 
surge and roar : 

It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild 
desire 

Beyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher 
mount, and higher ; 

But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its 
billows call, 

Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, 
and fall, and fall. 



Hujgte-iErljfltti i9i 



Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg 

the foe 
His legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no 

further go. 

Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her 

lover dead ; 
But with a price the fight was ours — we too have 

tears to shed ! 
The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall 

toll the brave, 
Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hill- 
side grasses wave ! 
Alas ! alas ! the trampled grass shall thrive another 

year, 
The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new 

Spring appear, 
But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them 

up to God ; 
Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms 

are as the sod ; 
Only their names and deeds are ours — but, for a 

century yet, 
The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not 

forget. 

God send us peace ! and where for aye the loved 

and lost recline 
Let fall, O South, your leaves of palm — O North, 

your sprigs of pine ! 
But when, with every ripened year, we keep the 

harvest-home, 
And to the dear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and 

daughters come — 
When children's children throng the board in the 

old homestead spread, 
And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the 

head, 
Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray- 
beard tell 



192 Hjttglg-Erfrroi 



Of those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their 

ground so well : 
** 'Twas for the Union and the Flag," the veteran 

shall say, 
"Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won 

that glorious day !" 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



AT GETTYSBURG. 

Like a furnace of fire blazed the midsummer sun, 

When to saddle we leaped at the order, 
Spurred on by the boom of the deep-throated gun 

That told of the foe on our border. 
A mist in our rear lay Antietam's dark plain, 

And thoughts of its carnage came o'er us ; 
But smiling beyond surged the fields of ripe grain, 

And we swore none should reap it before us. 

That night, with the ensign who rode by my side. 

On the camp's dreary edge I stood picket, 
Our ears intent lest every wind-rustle hide 

A foe's stealthy tread in the thicket ; 
And there, while we watched the first arrows of 
dawn 

Through the veil of the rising mists quiver, 
He told how the foeman had closed in upon 

His home by the Tennessee River. 

He spoke of a sire in his weakness cut down, 
With his last breath the traitor-flag scorning ; 

And his brow with the memory grew dark with a 
frown 
That paled the red light of the morning. 



llugk-iErfjflea 193 



For days he had followed the cowardly band ; 

And, when one lagged to forage or trifle, 
Had seared in his forehead the deep MiniS brand, 

And scored a fresh notch in his rifle. 

But one of the rangers had cheated his fate — 

For him he would search the world over : 
Such cool-plotting passion, such keenness of hate, 

Ne'er saw I in woman-scorned lover. 
Oh, who would have thought that beneath those 
dark curls 

Lurked vengeance as sure as death-rattle ; 
Or fancied those dreamy eyes, soft as a girl's, 

Could light with the fury of battle ? 

To horse / pealed the bugle, while grape-shot and 
shell 

Overhead through the forest were crashing ; 
A cheer for the flag — and the summer light fell 

On the blades from a thousand sheaths flashing. 
As mad ocean-waves to the storm-revel flock, 

So on we dashed, heedless of dangers ; 
A moment our long line surged back at the shock, 

Then swept through the ranks of the Rangers. 

I looked for the ensign. Ahead of his troop, 

Pressing on through the conflict infernal, 
His torn flag furled round him in festoon and loop, 

He spurred to the side of his colonel. 
And his clear voice rang out, as I saw his bright 
sword 

Through shako and gaudy plume shiver, 
With, " This for the last of the murderous horde !" 

And, " This for the home by the river !" 

At evening, returned from pursuit of the foe, 
By a shell-shattered caisson we found him ; 

And we buried him there in the sunset's red glow, 
With the dear old flag knotted around him. 



194 38ttgl£-1Erfj0?ii 



Yet how could we mourn, when each drum's 
muffled strain 
Told of foemen hurled back in disorder, — 
When we knew the North reaped her rich harvest 
of grain, 
Unharmed by a foe on her border ! 

Anonymous. 



JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. 

[A Union officer who was with the Eleventh Corps in the 
battle of Gettysburg says : " During the first day's fight 
an old man in a swallow-tailed coat and battered cylinder 
hat came stalking across the fields from the town, and 
made his appearance at Colonel Stone 1 s position. With a 
musket in his hand and ammunition in his pocket, this ven- 
erable citizen asked Colonel Wister's permission to fight. 
Wister directed him to go over to the Iron Brigade, where 
he would be sheltered by the woods ; but the old man in- 
sisted on going forward to the skirmish-line. He was al- 
lowed to do so, and continued firing until the skirmishers 
retired, when he was the last man to leave. He afterward 
fought with the Iron Brigade, where he was three times 
wounded. This patriotic and heroic citizen was Constable 
John Burns of Gettysburg.'^ 

Have you heard the story that gossips tell 

Of Burns of Gettysburg ?— No ? Ah, well : 

Brief is the glory that hero earns, 

Briefer the story of poor John Burns ; 

He was the fellow who won renown — 

The only man who didn't back down 

When the rebels rode through his native town ; 

But held his own in the fight next day, 

When all his townsfolk ran away. 

That was in July, sixty-three, — 

The very day that General Lee, 

Flower of Southern chivalry, 

Baffled and beaten, backward reeled 

From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. 



I might tell how, but the day before, 
John Burns stood at his cottage-door, 
Looking down the village street, 
Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, 
He heard the low of his gathered kine, 
And felt their breath with incense sweet ; 
Or, I might say, when the sunset burned 
The old farm gable, he thought it turned 
The milk that fell like a babbling Hood 
Into the milk-pail, red as blood ; 
Or, how he fancied the hum of bees 
Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 
But all such fanciful thoughts as these 
Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 
Who minded only his own concerns, 
Troubled no more by fancies fine 
Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,— 
Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, 
Slow to argue, but quick to act. 
That was the reason, as some folk say, 
He fought so well on that terrible day. 

And it was terrible. On the right 

Raged for hours the heady fight, 

Thundered the battery's double bass — 

Difficult music for men to face ; 

While on the left — where now the graves 

Undulate like the living waves 

That all the day unceasing swept 

Up to the pits the rebels kept — 

Round-shot ploughed the upland glades, 

Sown with bullets, reaped with blades ; 

Shattered fences here and there, 

Tossed their splinters in the air ; 

The very trees were stripped and bare ; 

The barns that once held yellow grain 

Were heaped with harvests of the slain ; 

The cattle bellowed on the plain, 

The turkeys screamed with might and main, 



And brooding barn-fowl left their rest 
With strange shells bursting in each nest. 

Just where the tide of battle turns, 

Erect and lonely, stood old John Burns. 

How do you think the man was dressed? 

He wore an ancient, long buff vest, 

Yellow as saffron — but his best ; 

And buttoned over his manly breast 

Was a bright blue coat with a rolling collar, 

And large gilt buttons — size of a dollar, — 

With tails that the country-folk called " swaller." 

He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, 

White as the locks on which it sat. 

Never had such a sight been seen 

For forty years on the village green, 

Since old John Burns was a country beau, 

And went to the " quiltings " long ago. 

Close at his elbows all that day 

Veterans of the Peninsula, 

Sunburnt and bearded, charged away ; 

And striplings, downy of lip and chin, — 

Clerks that the Home-Guard mustered in, — 

Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, 

Then at the rifle his right hand bore ; 

And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, 

With scraps of a slangy ripertoire : 

" How are you, White Hat ?" " Put her through P 

" Your head's level !" and " Bully for you !" 

Called him, ' Daddy," — begged he'd disclose 

The name of the tailor who made his clothes, 

And what was the value he set on those ; 

While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, 

Stood there picking the rebels off — 

With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat, 

And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. 

'Twas but a moment, for that respect 

Which clothes all courage their voices checked ; 



IBwjk-iErlfOfls la? 



And something the wildest could understand 
Spake in the old man's strong right hand, 
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 
Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown ; 
Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 
Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, 
In the antique vestments and long white hair, 
The Past of the Nation in battle there ; 
And some of the soldiers since declare 
That the gleam of his old white hat afar, 
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre., 
That day was their oriflamme of war. 

Thus raged the battle. You know the rest ; 

How the rebels, beaten, and backward pressed, 

Broke at the final charge and ran. 

At which John Burns — a practical man — 

Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, 

And then went back to his bees and cows. 

That is the story of old John Burns ; 
This is the moral the reader learns : 
In fighting the battle, the question's whether 
You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather. 

Bret Harte. 



READING THE LIST. 

" Is there any news of the war?" she said. 
" Only a list of the wounded and dead," 

Was the man's reply, 

Without lifting his eye 

To the face of the woman standing by. 
" 'Tis the very thing I want," she said ; 
" Read me a list of the wounded and dead." 
He read the list — 'twas a sad array 
Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray. 



iot Sn^te-iErljoesi 



In the very midst, was a pause to tell 
Of a gallant youth who fought so well 
That his comrades asked : " Who is he, pray ?" 
" The only son of the Widow Gray," 
Was the proud reply 
Of his Captain nigh .... 
What ails the woman standing near ? 
Her face has the ashen hue of fear ! 

" Well, well, read on ; is he wounded ? Quick ! 

O God ! but my heart is sorrow-sick ! 

Is he wounded ?" " No ; he fell, they say, 

Killed outright on that fatal day !" 

But see, the woman has swooned away ! 

Sadly she opened her eyes to the light ; 

Slowly recalled the events of the fight ; 

Faintly she murmured : " Killed outright ! 
It has cost me the life of my only son ; 
But the battle is fought, and the victory won * 
The will of the Lord, let it be done !" 

God pity the cheerless Widow Gray, 
And send from the halls of eternal day 
The light of His peace to illumine her way. 

Anonymous {Southern). 



ROLL-CALL. 

" Corporal Green !" the Orderly cried ; 
" Here !" was the answer, loud and clear, 
From the lips of the soldier who stood near, 

And " Here !" was the word the next replied. 

" Cyrus Drew !" — then a silence fell ; 

This time no answer followed the call ; 

Only his rear-man had seen him fall : 
Killed or wounded — he could not tell. 



Ilttglg-Erfyptflg iaa 



There they stood in the failing light, 

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, 
As plain to be read as open books, 

While slowly gathered the shades of night. 

The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood, 
And down in the corn where the poppies grew 
Were redder stains than the poppies knew ; 

And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. 

For the foe had crossed from the other side 
That day, in the face of a murderous fire 
That swept them down in its terrible ire, 

And their life-blood went to color the tide. 

" Herbert Kline !" At the call there came 
Two stalwart soldiers into the line, 
Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, 

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. 

" Ezra Kerr !" — and a voice answered, " Here !" 
" Hiram Kerr !" — but no man replied. 
They were brothers, these two; the sad winds, 
sighed, 

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. 

" Ephraim Deane !" — then a soldier spoke : 

" Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said ; 
" Where our ensign was shot I left him dead, 

Just after the enemy wavered and broke. 

" Close to the roadside his body lies ; 

I paused a moment and gave him drink ; 

He murmured his mother's name, I think, 
And Death came with it, and closed his eyes." 

'Twas a victory ; yes, but it cost us dear, — 
For that company's roll, when called at night, 
Of a hundred men who went into the fight, 

Numbered but twenty that answered " Here !" 

N. G. Shepherd. 



2ira Ihtgk-IErljflaa 



BY CHICKAMAUGA RIVER. 

Again the wandering breezes bring 

The music of the sheaves ; 
Again the crickets chirp and sing 

Among the golden leaves. 
Twelve times the Springs have oped the rills, 

Twelve amber Autumns sighed, 
Since hung the war-cloud o'er the hills, 

The year that Charlie died. 

The Springs return ; the roses blow, 

And croon the bird and bee, 
And flutes the ring-dove's love-call low, 

Along the Tennessee ; 
But one dear voice, one cherished tone, 

Returns to me — ah, never ! 
For Charlie fills a grave unknown, 

By Chickamauga River. 

Kind Nature sets her blossoms there, 

And fall the vernal rains ; 
But we may lay no garlands fair 

Above his loved remains. 
A white stone marks an empty grave 

Our household graves beside, 
And his dear name to it we gave 

The year that Charlie died. 

The winds of Fall were breathing low, 

The swallow left the eaves ; 
We heard the hollow bugles blow, 

When fell the harvest sheaves. 
And swift the mustering squadrons passed,— 

We thought of Charlie ever, — 
And swift the blue brigades were massed 

By Chickamauga River. 



Along the mountain spurs we saw 

The wreaths of smoke ascend ; 
And, all the Sabbath day, in awe, 

We watched the war-cloud blend 
With Fall's cerulean sky, and dim 

The wooded mountain side, — 
Oh, how our hearts then beat for him, 

The year that Charlie died ! 

How Thomas thundered past, when broke 

The wavering echelon ! 
How down the sky in flame and smoke 

Low sunk the copper sun ; 
The still night came, and who were saved 

And who were called to sever, 
We could not tell ; our banner waved 

By Chickamauga River. 

And some returned with happy feet ; 

But never at our door 
The fair-haired boy we used to meet 

Came back to greet us more. 
But memory seems to hear the fall 

Of steps at eventide, 
And all the changing years recall 

The year that Charlie died. 

Yet such a gift of God as he 

'Tis blessed to have cherished ; 
And they shall ever stainless be 

Who've nobly fought and perished. 
He nobly died, and he can know 

No dark dishonor ever; 
But green the grass for him shall grow 

By Chickamauga River. 

Again I see the mountains blaze 

In Autumn's amber light ; 
Again I see in shimmering haze 

The valleys, long and bright. 



2n2 lugk-1ErIj0?a 



Old Lookout Mountain towers afar 

As when, in lordly pride, 
It plumed its head with flags of war 

The year that Charlie died. 

On wooded Mission Ridge increase 

The fruited fields of Fall, 
And Chattanooga sleeps in peace 

Beneath her mountain wall. 
O Country, free from sea to sea, 

With union blest forever, 
Not vainly heroes died for thee 

By Chickamauga River ! 

Hezekiah Butterworth. 



THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUDS. 

[" The day had been one of dense mists and rains, and 
much of General Hooker 1 s battle was fought above the 
clouds, on the top of Lookout Mountain." — General Meigs's 
Report of the Battle before Chattanooga, Nov. 23-25, 1863.] 

Where the dews and the rains of heaven have their 
fountain, 
Like its thunder and its lightning our brave 
burst on the foe, 
Up above the clouds on Freedom's Lookout Moun- 
tain 
Raining life-blood like water on the valleys 
down below. 
O, green be the laurels that grow, 
O, sweet be the wild-buds that blow, 
In the dells of the mountain where the brave are 
lying low. 






Sttgfc-jErfrflgB 2H3 



Light of our hope and crown of our story, 
Bright as sunlight, pure as starlight shall their 
deeds of daring glow, 
While the day and the night out of heaven shed 
their glory, 
On Freedom's Lookout Mountain whence they 
routed Freedom's foe. 
O, soft be the gales where they go 
Through the pines on the summit where they 
blow, 
Chanting solemn music for the souls that passed 
below. 

William Dean Howells. 



AFTER ALL. 

The apples are ripe in the orchard, 
The work of the reaper is done, 

And the golden woodlands redden 
In the blood of the dying sun. 

At the cottage-door the grandsire 
Sits pale in his easy-chair, 

While the gentle wind of twilight 
Plays with his silver hair. 

A woman is kneeling beside him ; 

A fair young head is pressed, 
In the first wild passion of sorrow, 

Against his aged breast. 

And far from over the distance 
The faltering echoes come 

Of the flying blast of trumpet 
And the rattling roll of drum. 



2ii4 ilugk-IErljflejs 



And the grandsire speaks in a whisper: 

" The end no man can see ; 
But we give him to his country, 

And we give our prayers to Thee." 

The violets star the meadows, 

The rose-buds fringe the door, 
And over the grassy orchard 

The pink-white blossoms pour. 

But the grandsire's chair is empty, 

The cottage is dark and still ; 
There's a nameless grave in the battle-field, 

And a new one under the hill. 

And a pallid, tearless woman 

By the cold hearth sits alone ; 
And the old clock in the corner 

Ticks on with a steady drone, 

William Winter. 



OUR CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

" Good-will and peace, peace and good-will !' 

The burden of the Advent song, 
What time the love-charmed waves grew still 

To hearken to the shining throng ; 
The wondering shepherds heard the strain 

Who watched by night the slumbering fleece, 
The deep skies echoed the refrain, 

" Peace and good-will, good-will and peace !" 

And wise men hailed the promised sign, 
And brought their birth-gifts from the East, 

Dear to that Mother as the wine 
That hallowed Cana's bridal feast ; 



2£tt0b-iErIj0?0 ana 



But what to these are myrrh or gold, 
And what Arabia's costliest gem, 

Whose eyes the Child divine behold. 
The blessed Babe of Bethlehem. 

" Peace and good-will, good-will and peace T 

They sing, the bright ones overhead ; 
And scarce the jubilant anthems cease 

Ere Judah wails her first-born dead ; 
And Ramah's wild, despairing cry 

Fills with great dread the shuddering coast, 
And Rachel hath but one reply : 

" Bring back, bring back my loved and lost J" 

So down two thousand years of doom 

That cry is borne on wailing winds, 
But never star breaks through the gloom, 

No cradled peace the watcher finds ; 
And still the Herodian steel is driven, 

And breaking hearts make ceaseless moan, 
And still the mute appeal to heaven 

Man answers back with groan for groan. 

How shall we keep our Christmas-tide, 

With that dread Past, its wounds agape, 
Forever walking by our side, 

A fearful shade, an awful shape ! 
Can any promise of the Spring 

Make green the faded Autumn leaf ? 
Or who shall say that time will bring 

Fair fruit to him who sows but grief? 

Wild bells that shake the midnight air 

With those dear tones that custom loves 
You wake no sounds of laughter here, 

Nor mirth in all our silent groves ; 
On one broad waste, by hill or flood. 

Of ravaged lands your music falls, 
And where the happy homestead stood 

The stars look down on roofless halls. 



2dh 2Su0l?-iErlj0£i5 



At every board a vacant chair 

Fills with quick tears some tender eye, 
And at our maddest sports appear 

Those well-loved forms that will not die. 
We lift the glass, our hand is stayed — 

We. jest, a spectre rises up — 
And weeping, though no word is said, 

We kiss and pass the silent cup, 

And pledge the gallant friend who keeps 

His Christmas eve on Malvern's height, 
And him, our fair-haired boy, who sleeps 

Beneath Virginian snows to-night ; 
While by the fire she musing broods 

On all that was and might have been, 
If Shiloh's dank and oozing woods 

Had never drunk that crimson stain. 

O happy Yules of buried years ! 

Could ye but come in wonted guise, 
Sweet as love's earliest kiss appears 

When looking back through wistful eyes 
Would seem those chimes whose voices tell 

His birth-night with melodious burst, 
Who, sitting by Samaria's well, 

Quenched the lorn widow's life-long thirst. 

Ah ! yet I trust that all who weep, 

Somewhere, at last, will surely find 
His rest, if through dark ways they keep 

The child-like faith, the prayerful mind ; 
And some far Christmas morn shall bring 

From human ills a sweet release 
To loving hearts, while angels sing : 

" Peace and good-will, good-will and peace P 
John Dickson Bruns {Southern), 



luglg-jErfrflgg an? 

NEW YEAR'S EVE. 

[Libby Prison, Richmond, Va., December 31, 1863.] 

'Tis twelve o'clock ! Within my prison dreary, 
My head upon my hand, sitting so weary, 
Scanning the future, musing on the past, 
Pondering the fate that here my lot has cast, 
The hoarse cry of the sentry on his beat 
Wakens the echoes of the silent street — 
"Airs well/" 

Ah ! is it so ? My fellow-captive sleeping 
Where the barred window strictest watch is keeping, 
Dreaming of home and wife and prattling child, 
Of the sequestered vale, the mountain wild, 
Tell me, when cruel morn shall break again, 
Wilt thou repeat the sentinel's refrain — 
"All's well/" 

And thou, my country! Wounded, pale, and 

bleeding, 
Thy children deaf to a fond mother's pleading, 
Stabbing with cruel hate the nurturing breast 
To which their infancy in love was prest, 
Recount thy wrongs, thy many sorrows name, 
Then to the nations, if thou canst, proclaim — 
"All's well/" 

But through the clouds the sun is slowly breaking ; 
Hope from her long, deep sleep is re-awaking : 
Speed the time, Father ! when the bow of peace, 
Spanning the gulf, shall bid the tempest cease, 
When foemen, clasping each other by the hand, 
Shall shout once more, in a united land — 
"All's well/" 

F. A. Bartleson. 



2nH Sisgb-IErfpi** 



ULRIC DAHLGREN. 

\Colonel Ulric Dahlgren, son of Admiral Dahlgr en, U. S. 
Navy, distinguished himself by his dashing exploits with the 
Army of the Potomac, while serving on the staffs of Gen- 
erals Sigel, Hooker, and Meade, and lost a leg at Gettys- 
burg. While still on crutches, he led an expedition to free 
the Union prisoners in Libby Prison at Richmond, and fell 
in a midnight ambush, March 2, 1864, at the age of twenty- 
two years.] 

A FLASH of light across the night, 

An eager face, an eye afire : 
lad so true, you yet may rue 

The courage of your deep desire ! 

" Nay, tempt me not ; the way is plain — 
'Tis but the coward checks his rein ; 

For there they lie, 

And there they cry 
For whose dear sake 'twere joy to die !" 

He bends unto his saddle-bow, 
The steeds they follow two and two ; 

Their flanks are wet with foam and sweat, 
Their riders' locks are damp with dew. 

" O comrades, haste ! the way is long, 
The dirge it drowns the battle song ; 

The hunger preys, 

The famine slays, 
An awful horror veils our ways !" 

Beneath the pall of prison wall 

The rush of hoofs they seem to hear ; 

From loathsome guise they lift their eyes, 
And beat their bars and bend their ear. 

" Ah, God be thanked ! our friends are nigh j 
He wills it not that thus we die ; 

O fiends accurst 

Of Want and Thirst, 
Our comrades gather — do your worst !" 



luglg-iErfoigg ana 



A sharp affright runs through the night, 
An ambush stirred, a column reined ; 

The hurrying steed has checked his speed, 
His smoking flanks are crimson-stained. 

O noble son of noble sire, 
Thine ears are deaf to our desire ! 

O knightly grace 

Of valiant race, 
Thy grave is honor's trysting-place ! 

O life so pure ! O faith so sure ! 

O heart so brave, and true, and strong ! 
With tips of flame is writ your name 

In annalled deed and storied song ! 

It flares across the solemn night, 
It glitters in the radiant light ; 

A jewel set, 

Unnumbered yet, 
In our Republic's coronet ! 

Kate Brownlee Sherwood. 



OBSEQUIES OF STUART. 

{General y. E. B. Stuart, the famous chief of the Confed- 
erate cavalry, fell in an engagement with General Sheri- 
dan's forces, at Yellow Tavern, Va., May 12, 1864.] 

We could not pause, while yet the noon-tide air 
Shook with the cannonade's incessant pealing, 
The funeral pageant fitly to prepare — 
A nation's grief revealing. 

The smoke, above the glimmering woodland wide 

That skirts our southward border in its beauty, 
Marked where our heroes stood and fought and died 
For love and faith and duty. 



2ia Ittglg-jErfrogB 



And still, what time the doubtful strife went on, 
We might not find expression for our sorrow ; 
We could but lay our dear dumb warrior down. 
And gird us for the morrow. 

One weary year agone, when came a lull 

With victory in the conflict's stormy closes, 
When the glad Spring, all flushed and beautiful, 
First mocked us with her roses, 

With dirge and bell and minute-gun, we paid 
Some few poor rites — an inexpressive token 
Of a great people's pain — to Jackson's shade, 
In agony unspoken. 

No wailing trumpet and no tolling bell, 

No cannon, save the battle's boom receding. 
When Stuart to the grave we bore, might tell, 
With hearts all crushed and bleeding. 

The crisis suited not with pomp, and she 

Whose anguish bears the seal of consecration 
Had wished his Christian obsequies should be 
Thus void of ostentation. 

Only the maidens came, sweet flowers to twine 

Above his form so still and cold and painless, 
Whose deeds upon our brightest record shine, 
Whose life and sword were stainless. 

They well remembered how he loved to dash 

Into the fight, festooned from summer bowers ; 
How like a fountain's spray his sabre's flash 
Leaped from a mass of flowers. 

And so we carried to his place of rest 

All that of our great Paladin was mortal : 
The cross, and not the sabre, on his breast, 
That opes the heavenly portal. 



SuQk-iErIj00ja 211 



No more of tribute might to us remain ; 

But there will come a time when Freedom's martyrs 
A richer guerdon of renown shall gain 
Than gleams in stars and garters. 

I hear from out that sunlit land which lies 

Beyond these clouds that gather darkly o'er us, 
The happy sounds of industry arise 
In swelling peaceful chorus. 

And mingling with these sounds, the glad acclaim 

Of millions undisturbed by war's afflictions, 
Crowning each martyr's never-dying name 
With grateful benedictions. 

In some fair future garden of delights, 
Where flowers shall bloom and song-birds sweetly 
warble, 
Art shall erect the statues of our knights 
In living bronze and marble. 

And none of all that bright heroic throng 

Shall wear to far-off time a semblance grander, 
Shall still be decked with fresher wreaths of song, 
Than this beloved commander. 

The Spanish legend tells us of the Cid, 

That after death he rode erect, sedately, 
Along his lines, even as in life he did, 
In presence yet more stately : 

And thus our Stuart, at this moment, seems 
To ride out of our dark and troubled story 
Into the region of romance and dreams, 
A realm of light and glory ; 

And sometimes, when the silver bugles blow, 

That ghostly form, in battle reappearing, 
Shall lead his horsemen headlong on the foe, 
In victory careering ! 

John R. Thompson, 



212 Iwjk-iErfpreB 



THE THOUSAND AND THIRTY-SEVEN. 

[A full regiment of infantry consists of a thousand men 
and thirty-seven commissioned officers.\ 

Three years ago to-day 

We raised our hands to heaven, 
And on the rolls of muster 

Our names were thirty-seven ; 
There were just a thousand bayonets, 

And the swords were thirty-seven, 
As we took the oath of service 

With our right hands raised to heaven. 

Oh, 'twas a gallant day, 

In memory still adored, 
That day of our sun-bright nuptials 

With the musket and the sword ! 
Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared. 

And beneath a cloudless heaven 
Twinkled a thousand bayonets, 

And the swords were thirty-seven. 

Of the thousand stalwart bayonets 

Two hundred march to-day ; 
Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps, 

And hundreds in Maryland clay ; 
And other hundreds, less happy, drag 

Their shattered limbs around, 
And envy the deep, long, blessed sleep 

Of the battle-field's holy ground. 

For the swords — one night, a week ago, 

The remnant, just eleven, 
Gathered around a banqueting board 

With seats for thirty-seven ; 
There were two limped in on crutches, 

And two had each but a hand 
To pour the wine and raise the cup 

As we toasted " Our flag and land !" 



Hugl?-l;r!y0?0 213 



And the room seemed filled with whispers, 

As we looked at the vacant seats, 
And, with choking throats, we pushed aside 

The rich but untasted meats ; 
Then in silence we brimmed our glasses, 

As we rose up — just eleven — 
And bowed as we drank to the loved and the dead 

Who had made us thirty-seven ! 

Charles G. Halpine. 



DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
He turned them into the river lane ; 

One after another he let them pass, 
Then fastened the meadow bars again. 

Under the willows, and over the hill, 
He patiently followed their sober pace ; 

The merry whistle for once was still, 

And something shadowed the sunny face. 

Only a boy ! and his father had said 
He never could let his youngest go ; 

Two already were lying dead 

Under the feet of the trampling foe. 

But after the evening work was done, 

And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, 

Over his shoulder he slung his gun 

And stealthily followed the foot-path damp : 

Across the clover and through the wheat, 
With resolute heart and purpose grim, 

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, 
And the blind bat's flitting startled him. 



214 Ittglg-IErfrpgg 



Thrice since then had the lanes been white, 
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; 

And now, when the cows came back at night, 
The feeble father drove them home. 

For news had come to the lonely farm 
That three were lying where two had lain ; 

And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm 
Could never lean on a son's again. 

The summer day grew cool and late : 

He went for the cows when the work was done ; 

But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 
He saw them coming one by one : 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 

Shaking their horns in the evening wind, 

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass ; — 
But who was it following close behind ? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 

The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, 

Looked out a face that the father knew. 

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 
And yield their dead unto life again ; 

And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn, 
In golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ; 
For the heart must speak when the lips are 
dumb : 
And under the silent evening skies 

Together they followed the cattle home. 

Kate Putnam Osgood. 



Uttgle-iErljflflB 215 



THE SILENT MARCH. 

[In one of the campaigns of the Army of Northern Virginia^ 
while General Lee was lying asleep by the wayside an army 
of fifteen thousand men passed by in silence, anxious not to 
disturb his rest.] 

O'ERCOME with weariness and care, 

The war-worn veteran lay 
On the green turf of his native land, 

And slumbered by the way. 

The breeze that sighed across his brow, 
And smoothed its deepened lines, 

Fresh from his own loved mountains bore 
The murmur of their pines ; 

And the glad sound of waters, 

The blue rejoicing streams, 
Whose sweet familiar tones were blent 

With the music of his dreams. 

They brought no sound of battle's din, 

Shrill fife or clarion, 
But only tenderest memories 

Of his own fair Arlington. 

While thus the chieftain slumbered, 

Forgetful of his care, 
The hollow tramp of thousands 

Came sounding through the air. 

With ringing spur and sabre, 
And trampling feet, they come, 

Gay plume and rustling banner, 
And fife and trump and drum. 

But soon the foremost column 
Sees where, beneath the shade, 

In slumber, calm as childhood, 
Their wearied chief is laid. 



2ifi Uttglg-jErfroftg 

And down the line a murmur 

From lip to lip there ran, 
Until the stilly whisper 

Had spread to rear from van. 

And o'er the host a silence 

As deep and sudden fell, 
As though some mighty wizard 

Had hushed them with a spell. 

And every sound was muffled, 

And every soldier's tread 
Fell lightly as a mother's 

'Round her baby's cradle-bed. 

And rank and file and column, 

So softly by they swept, 
It seemed a ghostly army 

Had passed him as he slept. 

But mightier than enchantment 
Was that with magic wove — 

The spell that hushed their voices — 
Deep reverence and love. 

Anonymous. 



LEE TO THE REAR. 

{Founded on an incident in one of the battles of the 
Wilderness , when General Lee seized the colors of a Texan 
regiment to lead a charge against a well-nigh impregnable 
position. The colonel promised to carry the position if Lee 
would go to the rear ; and when the soldiers heard the 
promise and expostulation, they repeated it, and " Lee to 
the rear /" was shouted down the line.~\ 

Dawn of a pleasant morning in May 
Broke through the Wilderness cool and gray ; 
While perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birds 
Were carolling Mendelssohn's " Songs without 
words." 



lugk-fefatti 2i? 



Far from the haunts of men remote, 
The brook brawled on with a liquid note ; 
And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, wore 
The smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore. 

Little by little as daylight increased, 

And deepened the roseate flush in the East — 

Little by little did morning reveal 

Two long glittering lines of steel ; 

Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam, 
Tipped with the light of the earliest beam, 
And the faces are sullen and grim to see 
In the hostile armies of Grant and Lee. 

All of a sudden, ere rose the sun, 
Pealed on the silence the opening gun — 
A little white puff of smoke there came, 
And anon the valley was wreathed in flame. 

Down on the left of the Rebel lines, 

Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines, 

Before the Rebels their ranks can form, 

The Yankees have carried the place by storm. 

Stars and Stripes on the salient wave, 
Where many a hero has found a grave, 
And the gallant Confederates strive in vain 
The ground they have drenched with their blood, to 
regain. 

Yet louder the thunder of battle roared — 
Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured ; 
Slaughter infernal rode with Despair, 
Furies twain, through the murky air. 

Not far off, in the saddle there sat 
A gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat ; 
Not much moved by the fire was he, 
Calm and resolute Robert Lee. 



aia Htt0l?-iEr!j0*0 



Quick and watchful he kept his eye 
On the bold Rebel brigades close by, — 
Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease, 
While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees. 

For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay, 
The Yankee batteries blazed away, 
And with every murderous second that sped 
A dozen brave fellows, alas ! fell dead. 

The grand old graybeard rode to the space 
Where Death and his victims stood face to face, 
And silently waved his old slouched hat — 
A world of meaning there was in that ! 

" Follow me ! Steady ! We'll save the day !" 
This was what he seemed to say ; 
And to the light of his glorious eye 
The bold brigades thus made reply : 

" We'll go forward, but you must go back" — 
And they moved not an inch in the perilous track; 
" Go to the rear, and we'll send them to hell !" 
And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell. 

Turning his bridle, Robert Lee 
Rode to the rear. Like waves of the sea, 
Bursting the dikes in their overflow, 
Madly his veterans dashed on the foe. 

And backward in terror that foe was driven, 
Their banners rent and their columns riven, 
Wherever the tide of battle rolled 
Over the Wilderness, wood and wold. 

Sunset out of a crimson sky 
Streamed o'er a field of ruddier dye, 
And the brook ran on with a purple stain, 
From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain. 



Ittglg-iErfrflgfl 2ia 



Seasons have passed since that day and year — 
Again o'er its pebbles the brook runs clear, 
And the field in a richer green is drest 
Where the dead of a terrible conflict rest. 

Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum, 

The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb ; 

And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furled 

The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world ; 

But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides ; 
And down into history grandly rides, 
Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat, 
The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat. 
John R. Thompson. 



RUNNING THE BLOCKADE. 

A CHASE IN SOUNDINGS. 

Hove in the stays, she lay, 

In the blockading grounds 

Of the North Carolina sounds, 

Beleaguered half a day, 

The good ship Heir of Lynn : 

The still air shut her in 

The very focus of light ; 

Where the sea grows hot and white, 

As if it had turned to salt 

Or solid rock, with a fault 

That clipped the horizon's edge 

In a long irregular ledge. 

In the summer of sixty-three, 
As still as they could be 
The sea and air ; and every 
Spar lost in a revery 



220 Suglg-grfroflg 



Over its shadow, under 

The sea, in curious wonder. 

Not a cat's-paw turned the streamer, 

To spell at it letter by letter ; 

And for fifty leagues and better, 

You could see the smoke of a steamer 

Drifting down in the offing. 

You could hear the sullen coughing, 

Over sixty miles away, 

At Wilmington harbor and bay, — 

The pounding of cannon and mortar, 

And the groan of torpedoes under 

The sea, that came over her quarter, 

Like the bellow of smothered thunder. 

Uneasily looked the master 

Now at the sea, and then 

Off in a dream again 

Of home, as the bo's'n cast her 

Dipsy 1 lead in the shallow, 

To a sort of nasal tune, 

Larded with talk and tallow, 

In the bight of the afternoon ; 

Drawling from sea-worn topics, 

To sudden squalls in the tropics ; 

And lee shores whose hot lips 

Had opened and swallowed ships, — 

Till the slow talk seemed to pool 

In the old Annapolis school ; 

And the master was " Joe " again, 

With his messmate, Geordie of Maine, 

Who loved, with loves like his own, 

Sweethearts they never had won, — 

Like the small blue flowers that live but a day, 

Sweet things, in the inlets of Chesapeake Bay. 

The skies got bluer and bluer, 
Till the far-off gunboat knew her, 

1 Deep sea. 



Su0lr-iErfj0?0 221 



And came up, hand over hand, 
With a rushing, like falling sand, 
Of the coils of her screw propeller, 
Like the rifles that twist out her shell, or 
The leverage fold and grapple 
Of the sinewy boa-constrictor, 
While her stem peeled the scum as an apple, 
And the plunge of her steam beat the drums of a 
victor. 

But, like omens in viscera, 

Old Romans sought for ; 

As the stars fought with Sisera, — 

Faster and faster, 

And over and past her, 

Swirled the cone of the cyclone and fought her. 

It touched the sails of the schooner 
The turn of a sandglass sooner ; 
And, breaking in sudden bloom, — 
From her foretop studding-sail, 
Aft to her spanker-boom, 
Down to her channel rail, 
Fore to her flying jibs ; — 
Like a lily when it buds 
She flowers out of her ribs. 
White as the salt-sea seeds ; 
Bobbing about, like a cup. 
Then a shout, and the hunt is up. 



•' A lee shore and a squall ! 
There's but one of them all," 
As he steamed within hail, 
Said the gunboat commander, 
"Of all that I know, 
That would dare carry sail 
To beach her and land her, — 
Annapolis Joe." 



222 Ittgfc-IEirljoaa 



As swivels of hail 

Beat tattoo on the sail, 

And he looked on the sea, 

Where tempests unchain 

Reefs hid in white rain ; 

" You'll want boots to follow me 

All night," said the master, 

" With your wrought-iron roster, 

Old Geordie of Maine." 

Ship ahoy / Heave to / 
The wind seemed to wrestle 
With steam in the vessel, 
Elastic and pliant, 
And wrench the propeller 
With the strength of a giant. 
As if to compel her 
To shrink from the danger 
Her keel timbers ran on : 
But grimly defiant, 
And louder and louder, 
In the bursting of powder, 
Spoke the lips of her cannon. 

***** 
** It's Joe, to be sure," 
Said the naval commander, 

" And he's got a king's ransom of stores in his keel -, 
I'll sink her, or land her 
Rawbones on a lee shore, 
To feed the Sound fishes on his powder and steel." 

A reef rose between, 

Where the keel of the sea seemed to jib and careen, 

And pitch on its beam ends, 

About which the water ran smooth with vehemence, 

Like the gates of a lock when its hinges are swung. 

And the bore of the current shoots out in a tongue, 

But, taut and close-lasted, 

From keelson to masthead ; 



Hu0le-3ErIj0£j0i 223 



Spanker vangs to spritsail-yards, 

And flying jib-boom, 

As true to her halyards 

As belle of the room 

When her feet, to the click of the castanets clip- 
ping, 

Make rhymes to the music's adagios tripping, — 

As dangerously quick as Herodias' daughter, — 

While the wind kissed her lacings and whipped 
round her quarter, 

And pitch-piped its bagpipes as shrill as a demon, 

The sloop felt her tiller ; 

Double banked her propeller ; 

And rushed at the sluice with a full head of steam on. 
***** 

But the fugitive ship, 

Like a wild thing at bay, 

That will double and slip 

From corner to panel, 

Like a fox, stole away. 

The nips of the channel, 

In shoulder and knee, 

Seemed to rise and bend over her ; 

The bellowing sea, 

To open and cover her ; 

And where the surf plunges 

Through coral and sponges 

In slings of the wind as light as a feather, 

To rove the blue phosphorous frost in her shrouds, 

The burst of the clouds 

Mixed the sea and the sand and the sky altogether, 

And the welkin cracked open with terrible bright- 
ening, 

Till the bed of the sea seemed to bristle with light- 
ning; 

And over, and under 

The clamor of waves, pealed the toll of the thunder. 



224 Sugtg-iErfrogg 



So, all through the night, in the darkness they 

grope. 
In the wash of the water, and swish of the spray, 
Clung the sloop to the chase, as if towed by a rope, 
Till the morning gun slipped it, at breaking of day. 
Tira la, sang the bugles — a fox stole away ! 
Stole away ; stole away : stole away ; stole away : 
Tira la, sang the bugles — a fox stole away I 

In Wilmington town there's a ringing of bells 
As the people go down, to see her come in, 
With her flag at the forepeak, as every one tells 
Of the old ballad luck of the ship Heir of Lynn. 

If you ever meet Josey, or Geordie of Maine, 
You will run the chase over in soundings again. 
Will Wallace Harney. 



THE ALABAMA. 

[Sunk in the harbor of Cherbourg, France, by the United 
States SteamerKearsarge, June 19, 1864.] 

She has gone to the bottom ! the wrath of the tide 
Now breaks in vain insolence o'er her ; 

No more the rough seas like a queen shall she ride, 
While the foe flies in terror before her ! 

Now captive or exiled, or silent in death, 
The forms that so bravely did man her ; 

Her deck is untrod, and the gale's stirring breath 
Flouts no more the red cross of her banner ! 

She is down 'neath the waters, but still her bright 
name 

Is in death, as in life, ever glorious, 
And a sceptre all barren the conqueror must claim, 

Though he boasts the proud title " Victorious." 



jgttglg-IErfrflgfl 225 



Her country's lone champion, she shunned not the 
fight, 
Though unequal in strength, bold and fearless ; 
And proved in her fate, though not matchless in 
might, 
In daring at least she was peerless. 

No trophy hung high in the foe's hated hall 

Shall speak of her final disaster, 
Nor tell of the danger that could not appall, 

Nor the spirit that nothing could master ! 

The death-shot has sped — she has grimly gone 
down, 

But left her destroyer no token, 
And the mythical wand of her mystic renown, 

Though the waters o'erwhelm, is unbroken. 

For lo ! ere she settles beneath the dark wave 
On her enemies' cheeks spreads a pallor, 

As another deck summons the swords of the brave 
To gild a new name with their valor. 

Her phantom will yet haunt the wild roaring breeze, 
Causing foemen to start and to shudder, 

While their commerce still steals like a thief o'er the 
seas, 
And trembles from bowsprit to rudder. 

The spirit that shed on the wave's gleaming crest 

The light of a legend romantic 
Shall live while a sail flutters over the breast 

Of thy far-bounding billows, Atlantic ! 

And as long as one swift keel the strong surges 
stems, 

Or " poor Jack " loves his song and his story, 
Shall shine in tradition the valor of Semmes 

And the brave ship that bore him to glory ! 

Maurice Bell. 



22fi HJttglg-jErtjflgH 



THE BAY FIGHT. 

[Mobile Harbor, Alabama, August 8, 1864.] 
Three days through sapphire seas we sailed, 

The steady Trade blew strong and free, 
The Northern Light his banners paled, 
The Ocean Stream our channels wet, 

We rounded low Canaveral's lee, 
And passed the isles of emerald set 

In blue Bahama's turquoise sea. 

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, 
And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf, 

The palmy Western Key lay lapped 
In the warm washing of the Gulf. 

But weary to the hearts of all 

The burning glare, the barren reach 
Of Santa Rosa's withered beach, 

And Pensacola's ruined wall. 

And weary was the long patrol, 

The thousand miles of shapeless strand, 

From Brazos to San Bias that roll 
Their drifting dunes of desert sand. 

Yet coastwise as we cruised or lay, 
The land-breeze still at nightfall bore, 

By beach and fortress-guarded bay, 
Sweet odors from the enemy's shore, 

Fresh from the forest solitudes, 
Unchallenged of his sentry lines, — 

The bursting of his cypress buds, 
And the warm fragrance of his pines. 

Ah, never braver bark and crew, 

Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare, 
Had left a wake on ocean blue 

Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer ! 

But little gain by that dark ground 

Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath 



For friend or brother strangely found, 
'Scaped from the drear domain of death. 

And little venture for the bold, 
Or laurel for our valiant Chief, 
Save some, blockaded British thief, 

Full fraught with murder in his hold, 

Caught unawares at ebb or flood, 
Or dull bombardment, day by day, 
With fort and earthwork, far away, 

Low couched in sullen leagues of mud. 

A weary time, — but to the strong 
The day at last, as ever, came ; 

And the volcano, laid so long, 

Leaped forth in thunder and in flame ! 

" Man your starboard battery /" 

Kimberly shouted ; — 
The ship, with her hearts of oak, 
Was going, 'mid roar and smoke, 
On to victory! 

None of us doubted, 
No, not our dying — 
Farragut's Flag was flying ! 
Gaines growled low on our left, 

Morgan roared on our right ; 
Before us, gloomy and fell, 
With breath like the fume of hell, 
Lay the Dragon of iron shell, 

Driven at last to the fight ! 
Ha, old ship ! do they thrill, 

The brave two hundred scars 

You got in the River-Wars ? 
That were leeched with clamorous skill, 

(Surgery savage and hard,) 
Splinted with bolt and beam, 
Probed in scarfing and seam, 

Rudely linted and tarred 
With oakum and boiling pitch, 



22B Sugte-iErljflas 



And suiured with splice and hitch, 
At the Brooklyn Navy-Yard I 

Our lofty spars were down, 
To bide the battle's frown 
(Wont of old renown) — 
But every ship was drest 
In her bravest and her best, 

As if for a July day ; 
Sixty flags and three, 

As we floated up the bay — 
At every peak and mast-head flew 
The brave Red, White, and Blue, — 

We were eighteen ships that day. 

With hawsers strong and taut, 
The weaker lashed to port, 

On we sailed two by two— 
That if either a bolt should feel 
Crash through caldron or wheel, 
Fin of bronze, or sinew of steel, 

Her mate might bear her through. 

Forging boldly ahead, 
The great Flag-Ship led, 

Grandest of sights ! 
On her lofty mizzen flew 
Our Leader's dauntless Blue, 

That had waved o'er twenty fights 
So we went with the first of the tide, 

Slowly, 'mid the roar 

Of the rebel guns ashore 
And the thunder of each full broadside. 

Ah, how poor the prate 
Of statute and state 

We once held with these fellows ! 
Here on the flood's pale-green, 

Hark how he bellows, 

Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer ! 
Talk to them, Dahlgren, 

Parrott, and Sawyer! 



Sugk-iErljneH 229 



On, in the whirling shade 

Of the cannon's sulphury breath, 
We drew to the Line of Death 

That our devilish Foe had laid, — 

Meshed in a horrible net, 
And baited villainous well, 

Right in our path were set 
Three hundred traps of hell ! 

And there, O sight forlorn ! 
There, while the cannon 

Hurtled and thundered, — 
(Ah, what ill raven 
Flapped o'er the ship that morn !) — 
Caught by the under-death, 
In the drawing of a breath 
Down went dauntless Craven, 
He and his hundred ! 

A moment we saw her turret, 

A little heel she gave, 
And a thin white spray went o'er her, 

Like the crest of a breaking wave ; — 
In that great iron coffin, 

The channel for their grave, 

The fort their monument, 
(Seen afar in the offing), 
Ten fathom deep lie Craven 

And the bravest of our brave. 

Then in that deadly track 
A little the ships held back, 

Closing up in their stations ; — 
There are minutes that fix the fate 

Of battles and of nations, 

(Christening the generations,) 
When valor were all too late, 

If a moment's doubt be harbored ; — 
From the maintop, bold and brief, 
Came the word of our grand old chief : 
" Co on ! " — 'twas all he said, — 



23n Hwjle-IErlfOfls 



Our helm was put to starboard, 
And the Hartford passed ahead, 

Ahead lay the Tennessee, 

On our starboard bow he lay, 
With his mail-clad consorts three 

(The rest had run up the Bay) ; 
There he was, belching flame from his bow, 
And the steam from his throat's abyss 
Was a Dragon's maddened hiss ; 

In sooth a most cursed craft ! — 
In a sullen ring, at bay, 
By the Middle Ground they lay, 

Raking us fore and aft. 

Trust me, our berth was hot, 

Ah, wickedly well they shot — 
How their death-bolts howled and stung ! 

And the water-batteries played 

With their deadly cannonade 
Till the air around us rung ; 
So the battle raged and roared ; — 
Ah, had you been aboard 

To have seen the fight we made ! 

How they leaped, the tongues of flame, 

From the cannon's fiery lip ! 
How the broadsides, deck and frame, 

Shook the great ship ! 

And how the enemy's shell 

Came crashing, heavy and oft, 

Clouds of splinters flying aloft 
And falling in oaken showers ; — 

But ah, the pluck of the crew ! 
Had you stood on that deck of ours, 

You had seen what men may do. 

Still, as the fray grew louder, 

Boldly they worked and well — 
Steadily came the powder, 

Steadily came the shell. 



®U0k-iErIjf0?0 23i 



And if tackle or truck found hurt, 
Quickly they cleared the wreck — 

And the dead were laid to port, 
All a-row, on our deck. 

Never a nerve that failed, 

Never a cheek that paled, 
Not a tinge of gloom or pallor ; — 

There was bold Kentucky's grit, 
And the old Virginian valor, 

And the daring Yankee wit. 

There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon, 
There were black orbs from palmy Niger, 

But there, alongside the cannon, 
Each man fought like a tiger ! 

A little, once, it looked ill, 

Our consort began to burn — 
They quenched the flames with a will, 
But our men were falling still, 

And still the fleet was astern. 

Right abreast of the Fort 

In an awful shroud they lay, 

Broadsides thundering away, 
And lightning from every port ; 

Scene of glory and dread ! 
A storm-cloud all aglow 

With flashes of fiery red, 
The thunder raging below, 

And the forest of flags o'erhead ! 

So grand the hurly and roar, 

So fiercely their broadsides blazed, 

The regiments fighting ashore 
Forgot to fire as they gazed. 

There, to silence the Foe, 
Moving grimly and slow, 
They loomed in that deadly wreath, 



232 Sttglg-JErfjrflgfl 



Where the darkest batteries frowned, — 
Death in the air all round, 
And the black torpedoes beneath ! 

And now, as we looked ahead, 

All for'ard, the long white deck 
Was growing a strange dull red,- 

But soon, as once and again 
Fore and aft we sped, 

(The firing to guide or check,) 
You could hardly choose but tread 

On the ghastly human wreck, 
(Dreadful gobbet and shred 

That a minute ago were men \) 

Red, from mainmast to bitts ! 

Red, on bulwark and wale, 
Red, by combing and hatch, 

Red, o'er netting and vail ! 

And ever, with steady con, 

The ship forged slowly by, — 
And ever the crew fought on, 

And their cheers rang loud and high. 

Grand was the sight to see 

How by their guns they stood, 
Right in front of our dead, 

Fighting square abreast — 

Each brawny arm and chest 
All spotted with black and red, 

Chrism of fire and blood ! 

Worth our watch, dull and sterile, 

Worth all the weary time, 
Worth the woe and the peril, 

To stand in that strait sublime ! 
Fear ? A forgotten form ! 

Death ? A dream of the eyes ! 
We were atoms in God's great storm 

That roared through the angry skies. 



lUglg-JErfjflgg 233 



One only doubt was ours, 

One only dread we knew, — 
Could the day that dawned so well 
Go down for the Darker Powers ? 

Would the fleet get through ? 
And ever the shot and shell 
Came with the howl of hell, 
The splinter-clouds rose and fell, 

And the long line of corpses grew, — 

Would the fleet win through ? 

They are men that never will fail, 
(How aforetime they've fought !) 

But Murder may yet prevail, — 
They may sink as Craven sank. 

Therewith one hard fierce thought, 

Burning on heart and lip, 

Ran like fire through the ship : 
Fight her, to the last plank ! 

A dimmer renown might strike 
If Death lay square alongside, — 

But the Old Flag has no like, 

She must fight, whatever betide ; — 

When the War is a tale of old, 

And this day's story is told, 
They shall hear how the Hartford died ! 

But as we ranged ahead, 

And the leading ships worked in, 
Losing their hope to win, 

The enemy turned and fled — 

And one seeks a shallow reach : 
And another, winged in her flight, 
Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in ; — 
And one, all torn in the fight, 

Runs for a wreck on the beach, 

Where her flames soon fire the night. 

And the Ram, when well up the Bay, 

And we looked that our stems should meet, 



234 Itoglg-jErfrflgg 

(He had us fair for a prey,) 
Shifting his helm midway, 

Sheered off, and ran for the fleet ; 
There, without skulking or sham, 

He fought them gun for gun ; 
And ever he sought to ram, 

But could finish never a one. 

From the first of the iron shower 
Till we sent our parting shell, 

'Twas just one savage hour 

Of the roar and the rage of hell. 

With the lessening smoke and thunder, 
Our glasses around we aim, — 

What is that burning yonder ? 

Our Philippi — aground and in flame! 

Below, 'twas still all a-roar, 
As the ships went by the shore, 

But the fire of the Fort had slacked, 
(So fierce their volleys had been,) — 
And now with a mighty din, 
The whole fleet came grandly in, 

Though sorely battered and wracked. 

So, up the Bay we ran, 

The Flag to port and ahead, — 

And a pitying rain began 

To wash the lips of our dead. 

A league from the Fort we lay, 

And deemed that the end must lag, — 

When lo ! looking down the Bay, 
There flaunted the Rebel Rag ; — 

The Ram is again under way 
And heading dead for the Flag ! 

Steering up with the stream, 

Boldly his course he lay, 
Though the fleet all answered his fire, 
And, as he still drew nigher, 



Sugte-SrlyflttJ 235 



Ever on bow and beam 

Our Monitors pounded away ; 

How the Chickasaw hammered away ! 

Quickly breasting the wave, 

Eager the prize to win, 
First of us all the brave 

Monongahela went in 
Under full head of steam ; — 
Twice she struck him abeam, 
Till her stem was a sorry work, 

(She might have run on a crag !) 
The Lackawana hit fair, 
He flung her aside like cork, 

And still he held for the Flag. 

High in the mizzen shroud, 

(Lest the smoke his sight o'erwhelm,) 
Our Admiral's voice rang loud : 

" Hard-a-star board your helm ! 
Starboard, a7id run him down I " 

Starboard it was, — and so, 
Like a black squall's lifting frown, 
Our mighty bow bore down 

On the iron beak of the Foe. 

We stood on the deck together, 
Men that had looked on death 

In battle and stormy weather ; 
Yet a little we held our breath, 
When, with the hush of death, 

The great ships drew together. 

Our Captain strode to the bow, 

Drayton, courtly and wise, 

Kindly cynic, and wise, 
(You hardly had known him now, 

The flame of fight in his eyes !) — 
His brave heart eager to feel 
How the oak would tell on the steel t 



23H Huglg-grfrflgja 



But, as the space grew short, 

A little he seemed to shun us ; 
Out peered a form grim and lanky, 
And a voice yelled, " Hard-a-port / 
Hard-a-port / — here's the damned Yankee 

Coining right down on us ! " 

He sheered, but the ships ran foul 
With a gnarring shudder and growl : 

He gave us a deadly gun ; 
But as he passed in his pride, 
(Rasping right alongside !) 

The Old Flag, in thunder-tones 
Poured in her port broadside, 
Rattling his iron hide 

And cracking his timber-bones ! 

Just then, at speed on the Foe, 

With her bow all weathered and brown, 
The great Lackawana came down 

Full tilt, for another blow ; — 

We were forging ahead, 

She reversed — but, for all our pains, 

Rammed the old Hartford, instead, 
Just for'ard the mizzen chains ! 

Ah ! how the masts did buckle and bend, 

And the stout hull ring and reel, 
As she took us right on end ! 

(Vain were engine and wheel, 

She was under full steam,) — 
With the roar of a thunder-stroke 
Her two thousand tons of oak 

Brought up on us, right abeam ! 

A wreck, as it looked, we lay, — 
(Rib and plank shear gave way 

To the stroke of that giant wedge !) 
Here, after all, we go — 
The old ship is gone ! — ah, no, 

But cut to the water's edge. 



Sujgb-iEdjfleis 237 



Never mind then, — at him again ! 

His flurry now can't last long ; 
He'll never again see land, — 
Try that on him, Marchand ! 

On him again, brave Strong ! 

Heading square at the hulk, 

Full on his beam we bore ; 
But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog 
Lay on the tide like a log, 

He vomited flame no more. 

By this, he had found it hot ; — 
Half the fleet, in an angry ring, 
Closed round the hideous thing, 

Hammering with solid shot, 

And bearing down, bow on bow ; 
He has but a minute to choose, — - 

Life or renown ? — which now 
Will the Rebel Admiral lose ? 

Cruel, haughty, and cold, 

He ever was strong and bold ; — 

Shall he shrink from a wooden stem ? 
He will think of that brave band 
He sank in the Cumberland ; — 

Ay, he will sink like them. 

Nothing left but to fight 
Boldly his last sea-fight ! 

Can he strike ? By Heaven, 'tis true ! 

Down comes the traitor Blue, 
And up goes the captive White ! 

Up went the White ! Ah, then 
The hurrahs that once and again 
Rang from three thousand men 

All flushed and savage with fight ! 
Our dead lay cold and stark ; 
But our dying, down in the dark, 

Answered as best they might, 



230 Ihtgfr-iErljjflfla 



Lifting their poor lost arms, 
And cheering for God and Right ! 

Ended the mighty noise, 

Thunder of forts and ships. 

Down we went to the hold,- 
Oh, our dear dying boys ! 

How we pressed their poor brave lips 

(Ah, so pallid and cold !) 
And held their hands to the last, 

(Those that had hands to hold.) 

Still thee, O woman heart ! 

(So strong an hour ago ;) 
If the idle tears must start, 

'Tis not in vain they flow. 

They died, our children dear, 

On the drear berth-deck they died, — 

Do not think of them here — 

Even now their footsteps near 

The immortal, tender sphere — 

(Land of love and cheer ! 
Home of the Crucified !) 

And the glorious deed survives ; 

Our threescore, quiet and cold, 
Lie thus, for a myriad lives 

And treasure-millions untold, — 
(Labor of poor men's lives, 
Hunger of weans and wives, 

Such is war-wasted gold.) 

Our ship and her fame to-day 
Shall float on the storied Stream 

When mast and shroud have crumbled away. 
And her long white deck is a dream. 

One daring leap in the dark, 

Three mortal hours, at the most,— 

And hell lies stiff and stark 
On a hundred leagues of coast. 






Suglg-iErfrigfl 239 



For the mighty Gulf is ours, — 
The bay is lost and won, 
An Empire is lost and won ! 

Land, if thou yet hast flowers, 

Twine them in one more wreath 
Of tenderest white and red, 

(Twin buds of glory and death !) 
For the brows of our brave dead, 
For thy Navy's noblest son. 

Joy, O Land, for thy sons, 
Victors by flood and field ! 

The traitor walls and guns 

Have nothing left but to yield ; 
(Even now they surrender !) 

And the ships shall sail once more 5 
And the cloud of war sweep on 

To break on the cruel shore ; — 
But Craven is gone, 
He and his hundred are gone. 

The flags flutter up and down 
At sunrise and twilight dim, 

The cannons menace and frown, — 
But never again for him, 
Him and the hundred. 

The Dahlgrens are dumb, 
Dumb are the mortars ; 

Never more shall the drum 
Beat to colors and quarters, — 
The great guns are silent. 

O brave heart and loyal ! 

Let all your colors dip ; — 

Mourn him, proud ship ! 
From main deck to royaL 

God rest our Captain, 

Rest our lost hundred ! 



24n ISttglg-Srfrogii 



Droop, flag and pennant ! 

What is your pride for ? 

Heaven, that he died for, 
Rest our Lieutenant, 

Rest our brave threescore ! 
* * * * 

O Mother Land ! this weary life 
We led, we lead, is 'long of thee ; 

Thine the strong agony of strife, 
And thine the lonely sea. 

Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent, 

The weary rows of cots that lie 
With wrecks of strong men, marred and rent, 

'Neath Pensacola's sky. 

And thine the iron caves and dens 

Wherein the flame our war-fleet drives ; 

The fiery vaults, whose breath is men's 
Most dear and preeious lives ! 

Ah, ever, when with storm sublime 
Dread Nature clears our murky air, 

Thus in the crash of falling crime 
Some lesser guilt must share. 

Full red the furnace fires must glow 
That melt the ore of mortal kind : 

The mills of God are grinding slow, 
But ah, how close they grind ! 

To-day the Dahlgren and the drum 
Are dread Apostles of His Name ; 

His kingdom here can only come 
By chrism of blood and flame. 

Be strong : already slants the gold 
Athwart these wild and stormy skies j 

From out this blackened waste, behold 
What happy homes shall rise 1 



SugU-ErfjOeH 24X 



But see thou well no traitor gloze, 

No striking hands with Death and Shame, 

Betray the sacred blood that flows 
So freely for thy name. 

And never fear a victor foe : — 

Thy children's hearts are strong and high ; 
Nor mourn too fondly ; well they know 

On deck or field to die. 

Nor shalt thou want one willing breath, 
Though, ever smiling round the brave, 

The blue sea bear us on to death, 
The green were one wide grave. 

Henry Howard Brownell. 



BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE. 

T SEE before me now a travelling army halting, 
Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the 

orchards of summer, 
Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, 

in places rising high, 
Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall 

shapes dingily seen, 
The numerous camp-fires scattered near and far, 

some away up on the mountain, 
The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, 

large-sized, flickering, 
And over all the sky — the sky ! far, far out of reach, 

studded, breaking out, the eternal stars. 

Walt Whitman. 



242 lOugte-IErfjowi 



SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 

[During General Sheridan's temporary absence, his troops 
in the Shenandoah Valley were surprised and routed by 
the Confederates under General Early. The Union com- 
mander hurried to the front in time to rally his forces 
and turn defeat into victory — October 19, 1864.] 

Up from the South at break of day, 
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, 
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war 
Thundered along the horizon's bar ; 
And louder yet into Winchester rolled 
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 
Making the blood of the listener cold, 
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 

A good broad highway leading down ; 

And there, through the flush of the morning light, 

A steed as black as the steeds of night 

Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight ; 

As if he knew the terrible need, 

He stretched away with his upmost speed ; 

Hills rose and fell ; but his heart was gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering SoutI 
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth, 
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 
Impatient to be where the battlefield calls ; 



Sitgle-iErljofls 243 



Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 
With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet, the road 

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 

And the landscape sped away behind 

Like an ocean flying before the wind, 

And the steed, like a barque fed with furnace ire, 

Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. 

But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ; 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 

With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the General saw were the groups 
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ; 
What was done ? what to do ? — a glance told him 

both ; 
Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 
He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, 
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, 

because 
The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; 
By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's play, 
He seemed to the whole great army to say : 
" I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down to save the day !" 

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! 
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! 
And when their statues are placed on high, 
Under the dome of the Union sky, — 
The American soldiers' Temple of Fame,- 
There with the glorious General's name 
Be it said in letters both bold and bright : 
" Here is the steed that saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 
From Winchester, — twenty miles away !" 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



244 Uttglg-grfrflgg 

THE CAVALRY CHARGE. 
With bray of the trumpet 

And roll of the drum, 
And keen ring of bugle, 

The cavalry come. 
Sharp clank the steel scabbaras, 

The bridle-chains ring, 
And foam from red nostrils 

The wild chargers fling. 

Tramp ! tramp ! o'er the greensward 

That quivers below, 
Scarce held by the curb-bit 

The fierce horses go ! 
And the grim-visaged colonel, 

With ear-rending shout, 
Peals forth to the squadrons 

The order, — " Trot out / " 

One hand on the sabre, 

And one on the rein, 
The troopers move forward 

In line on the plain. 
As rings the word, " Gallop / " 

The steel scabbards clank, 
And each rowel is pressed 

To a horse's hot flank : 
And swift is their rush 

As the wild torrent's flow, 
When it pours from the crag 

On the valley below. 

u Charge ! " thunders the leader : 

Like shaft from the bow 
Each mad horse is hurled 

On the wavering foe. 
A thousand bright sabres 

Are gleaming in air: 
A thousand dark horses 

Are dashed on the square. 



Uttrjk-iErljOfls 245 



Resistless and reckless 

Of aught may betide, 
Like demons, not mortals, 

The wild troopers ride. 
Cut right ! and cut left !— 

For the parry who needs ? 
The bayonets shiver 

Like wind-scattered reeds. 

Vain — vain the red volley 

That bursts from the square, — 
The random-shot bullets 

Are wasted in air. 
Triumphant, remorseless, 

Unerring as death, — 
No sabre that's stainless 

Returns to its sheath. 

The wounds that are dealt 

By that murderous steel 
Will never yield case 

For the surgeon to heal. 
Hurrah ! they are broken — 

Hurrah ! boys, they fly ! 
None linger save those 

Who but linger to die. 

Rein up your hot horses 

And call in your men, — 
The trumpet sounds "Rally 

To colors " again. 
Some saddles are empty, 

Some comrades are slain, 
And some noble horses 

Lie stark on the plain ; 
But war's a chance game, boys. 

And weeping is vain. 

Francis A. Durivage. 



24H iJSttglg-iErfrflga 



THE CAVALRY CHARGE. 

Hark ! the rattling roll of the musketeers, 

And the ruffled drums, and the rallying cheers, 

And the rifles burn with a keen desire 

Like the crackling whips of a hemlock fire, 

And the singing shot and the shrieking shell 

And the splintered fire of the shattered hell, 

And the great white breaths of the cannon smoke 

As the growling guns by batteries spoke ; 

And the ragged gaps in the walls of blue 

Where the iron surge rolled heavily through, 

That the Colonel builds with a breath again 

As he cleaves the din with his " Close up, men f" 

And the groan torn out from the blackened lips, 

And the prayer doled slow with the crimsoned drips, 

And the beaming look in the dying eye 

As under the cloud the Stars go by, 

" But his soul inarched on /" the Captain said, 

For the Boy in Blue can never be dead ! 

And the troopers sit in their saddles all 

Like statues carved in an ancient hall, 

And they watch the whirl from their breathless 

ranks, 
And their spurs are close to the horses' flanks, 
And the fingers work of the sabre hand — 
Oh, to bid them live, and to make them grand ! 
And the bugle sounds to the charge at last, 
And away they plunge, and the front is passed ! 
And the jackets blue grow red as they ride, 
And the scabbards too, that clank by their side, 
And the dead soldiers deaden the strokes iron-shod 
As they gallop right on o'er the plashy red sod — 
Right into the cloud all spectral and dim, 
Right up to the guns black-throated and grim, 
Right down on the hedges bordered with steel, 
Right through the dense columns, — then "Right 

about wheel 7" 



*8ugl£-i:rlj0fl0 24? 



Hurrah ! a new swath through the harvest again ! 
To the battle, Amen ! 
Benjamin F. Taylor. 



Hurrah for the Flag ! To the battle, Amen ! 



THE CHARGE BY THE FORD. 

Eighty and nine with their captain 

Rode on the enemy's track, 
Rode in the gray of the morning : 

Nine of the ninety came back. 

Slow rose the mist from the river, 
Lighter each moment the way ; 

Careless and tearless and fearless 
Galloped they on to the fray. 

Singing in tune, how the scabbards 
Loud on the stirrup-irons rang, 

Clinked as the men rose in saddle, 
Fell as they sank with a clang. 

What is it moves by the river, 
Jaded and weary and weak ? 

Gray-backs — a cross on their banner- 
Yonder the foe whom they seek. 

Silence ! They see not, they hear not, 

Tarrying there by the marge : 
Forward 7 Draw sabre ! Trot! Gallop! 
Charge ! like a hurricane, charge ! 

Ah ! 'twas a man-trap infernal — 

Fire like the deep pit of hell ! 
Volley on volley to meet them, 

Mixed with the gray rebels' yell. 

Ninety had ridden to battle, 

Tracing the enemy's track, — 
Ninety had ridden to battle, 

Nine of the ninety came back. 



240 Igitglg-jErfyogg 



Honor the name of the ninety ; 

Honor the heroes who came 
Scathless from five hundred muskets, 

Safe from the lead-bearing flame. 



Eighty and one of the troopers 

Lie on the field of the slain — 
Lie on the red field of honor : 

Honor the nine who remain ! 

Cold are the dead there, and gory, 

There where their life-blood was spilt ; 

Back come the living, each sabre 
Red from the point to the hilt. 

Give them three cheers and a tiger ! 

Let the flags wave as they come ! 
Give them the blare of the trumpet ! 

Give them the roll of the drum ! 

Thomas Dunn English. 



CAVALRY SONG. 

OUR good steeds snuff the evening air, 

Our pulses with their purpose tingle ; 
The foeman's fires are twinkling there ; 
He leaps to hear our sabres jingle ! 

Halt! 
Each carbine sends its whizzing ball : 
Now, cling ! clang ! forward all, 
Into the fight ! 

Dash on beneath the smoking dome : 
Through level lightnings gallop nearer ! 

One look to Heaven ! No thoughts of home ; 
The guidons that we bear are dearer. 
Charge 1 



Sagk-IEriynfla 243 



Cling ! clang ! forward all ! 
Heaven help those whose horses fall ! 
Cut left and right ! 

They flee before our fierce attack ! 

They fall ! they spread in broken surges ! 
Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, 
And leave the foeman to his dirges. 

Wheel ! 
The bugles sound the swift recall : 
Cling ! clang ! backward all ! 
Home, and good-night ! 
Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



THE WATCHERS. 

Beside a stricken field I stood ; 
On the torn turf, on grass and wood, 
Hung heavily the dew of blood. 

Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain, 
But all the air was quick with pain 
And gusty sighs and tearful rain. 

Two angels, each with drooping head, 
And folded wings and noiseless tread, 
Watched by that valley of the dead. 

The one, with forehead saintly bland, 
And lips of blessing, not command, 
Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand. 

The other's brows were scarred and knit, 
His restless eyes were watch-fires lit, 
His hands for battle-gauntlets fit. 

" How long," — I knew the voice of Peace ; 
" Is there no respite ? — no release ? — 
When shall the hopeless quarrel cease ? 



250 1§uglg-1Erf?ggB 

" O Lord, how long ! — One human soul 
Is more than any parchment scroll, 
Or any flag- thy winds unroll. 

" What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave ? 
How weigh the gift that Lyon gave, 
Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave ? 

" O brother ! if thine eye can see, 
Tell how and when the end shall be, 
What hope remains for thee and me." 

Then Freedom sternly said : " I shun 
No strife nor pang beneath the sun, 
When human rights are staked and won. 

" I knelt with Ziska's hunted flock, 
I watched in Toussaint's cell of rock, 
I walked with Sidney to the block. 

" The moor of Marston felt my tread, 
Through Jersey snows the march I led, 
My voice Magenta's charges sped. 

" But now through weary day and night 
I watch a vague and aimless fight, 
For leave to strike one blow aright. 

" On either side my foe they own : 

One guards through love his ghastly throne* 

And one through fear to reverence grown. 

" Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed, 

By open foes, or those afraid 

To speed thy coming through my aid ? 

■ Why watch to see who win or fall ? — 

I shake the dust against them all, 

I leave them to their senseless brawl." 

* Nay," Peace implored : " yet longer wait ; 
The doom is near, the stake is great, 
God knoweth if it be too late. 



Sugk-iErlntta 251 



" Still wait and watch ; the way prepare 
Where I with folded wings of prayer 
May follow, weaponless and bare/' 

"Too late !" the stern sad voice replied, 
" Too late !" its mournful echo sighed, 
In low lament the answer died. 

A rustling as of wings in flight, 

An upward gleam of lessening white, 

So passed the vision, sound and sight. 

But round me, like a silver bell 
Rung down the listening sky to tell 
Of holy help, a sweet voice fell. 

" Still hope and trust," it sang ; " the rod 
Must fall, the wine-press must be trod, 
But all is possible with God !" 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



MY AUTUMN WALK. 
{October, 1864.] 

On woodlands ruddy with autumn 

The amber sunshine lies ; 
I look on the beauty round me, 

And tears come into my eyes. 

For the wind that sweeps the meadows 
Blows out of the far Southwest, 

Where our gallant men are fighting, 
And the gallant dead are at rest. 

The golden-rod is leaning, 
And the purple aster waves 

In a breeze from the land of battles, 
A breath from the land of graves. 



252 Hu0i*-2:rlj0?0 



Full fast the leaves are dropping 
Before that wandering breath ; 

As fast, on the field of battle, 
Our brethren fall in death. 

Beautiful over my pathway 

The forest spoils are shed ; 
They are spotting the grassy hillocks 

With purple and gold and red. 

Beautiful is the death -sleep 

Of those who bravely fight 
In their country's holy quarrel, 

And perish for the Right. 

But who shall comfort the living, 
The light of whose homes is gone : 

The bride that, early widowed, 
Lives broken-hearted on ; 

The matron whose sons are lying 
In graves on a distant shore ; 

The maiden, whose promised husband 
Comes back from the war no more ? 

I look on the peaceful dwellings 
Whose windows glimmer in sight, 

With croft and garden and orchard, 
That bask in the mellow light ; 

And I know that, when our couriers 
With news of victory come, 

They will bring a bitter message 
Of hopeless grief to some. 

Again I turn to the woodlands, 

And shudder as I see 
The mock-grape's blood-red banner 

Hung out on the cedar-tree ; 



Sugt?-i:rlj0£0 253 



And I think of days of slaughter, 
And the night-sky red with flames, 

On the Chattahoochee's meadows, 
And the wasted banks of the James. 

Oh, for the fresh spring-season, 

When the groves are in their prime ; 

And far away in the future 
Is the frosty autumn-time ! 

Oh, for that better season, 

When the pride of the foe shall yield, 
And the hosts of God and Freedom 

March back from the well-won field ; 

And the matron shall clasp her first-born 

With tears of joy and pride ; 
And the scarred and war-worn lover 

Shall claim his promised bride ! 

The leaves are swept from the branches ; 

But the living buds are there, 
With folded flower and foliage, 

To sprout in a kinder air. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



HYMN OF THE MOTHERS OF OUR VOL- 
UNTEERS. 

Home calls each loved familiar name 
With precious memories stored : 

Deal gently, Lord ! 'Twas not for fame 
Our children took the sword. 

We never thought, when each young face 

First softly touched our own, 
And little hands with sweet embrace 

About our necks were thrown, 



254 Utt^k-Ertjaea 



That our own veins were nursing then 

The holy cause of Right, 
And that from our own bosoms men 

Would spring to Freedom's fight. 

We deem not now the offering vain, 

Our dearest though we give ; 
Nor do we ask release from pain, 

If but the Nation live. 

Still, sometimes as alone we kneel 
Where once the cradle stood, 

So much comes back — 'tis hard to feel 
That all our grief is good. 

The rosy cheeks so round and fair, 

The pattering little feet, 
The laughing eyes and silken hair 

Of those whose touch was sweet* 

Rise up amid the glare and din 

Of battle's fiery tide, 
And flit past prison bars, within 

Which love is crucified ! 

We know we bade them go, when stirred 

The land from sea to sea, 
For 'twas Thy voice, O Christ, they heard 

Proclaiming liberty. 

But, oh, this travail long and sore, 

Watching their woeful way, 
And never able to do more 

Than serve at home and pray. 

It seems as if the mother's hand 
Could soothe their sufferings best, 

And that the mother ought to stand 
By children laid at rest. 






Sttgl*-&lpl*0 255 



Forgive, O God, our doubts and fears 
While Thy great work goes on ; 

We do rejoice amid our tears, 
And pray, " Thy will be done." 

Thy will— good will — its message now 
Of promised peace grows strong, 

And, flashing on War's awful brow, 
Proclaims the doom of Wrong. 

It is enough. Out from the gloom 

Rises a nation free. 
Still, at the cross and by the tomb, 

We cling, O Lord, to Thee. 

Horatio Nelson Powers. 



WOMAN'S WAR MISSION. 

Fold away all your bright tinted dresses, 

Turn the key on your jewels to-day, 
And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses 

Braid back, in a serious way : 
No more delicate gloves, no more laces, 

No more trifling in boudoir and bower ; 
But come with your souls in your faces — 

To meet the stern needs of the hour ! 

Look around ! By the torchlight unsteady, 

The dead and the dying seem one. 
What ! paling and trembling already, 

Before your dear mission's begun ? 
These wounds are more precious than ghastly 

Fame presses her lips to each scar, 
As she chants of a glory which vastly 

Transcends all the horrors of war. 

Pause here by this bedside — how mellow 
The light showers down on that brow ! 



25fi lugk-iErJfora 



Such a brave, brawny visage ! — Poor fellow ! 

Some homestead is missing him now. 
Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing, 

Some mother sits moaning, distressed, — 
While the loved one lies faint, but unfearing, 

With the enemy's ball in his breast. 

Here's another ; a lad — a mere stripling — 

Picked up from the field, almost dead ; 
With the blood through his sunny hair rippling 

From a horrible gash in the head. 
They say he was first in the action, 

Gay-hearted, quick-handed, and witty; 
He fought till he fell with exhaustion, 

At the gates of our fair Southern city. 

Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city, 

With a spirit transcending his years ; 
Lift him up in your large-hearted pity, 

And touch his pale lips with your tears. 
Touch him gently — most sacred the duty 

Of dressing that poor shattered hand ! 
God spare him to rise in his beauty, 

And battle once more for the land ! 

Who groaned ? What a passionate murmur — 

" In thy mercy, O God ! let me die / " 
Ha ! surgeon, your hand must be firmer, 

That grapeshot has shattered his thigh. 
Fling the light on those poor furrowed features, 

Gray-haired and unknown — bless the brother ! 
O God ! that one of thy creatures 

Should e'er work such woe on another ! 

Wipe the sweat from his brow with your kerchief ; 

Let the stained tattered collar go wide. 
See ! he stretches out blindly to search if 

The surgeon still stands at his side. 
"My soft's over yonder / he's wounded — 

Oh I this ball that has broken ?ny thigh / " 



lugfc-firljntts as? 



And again he burst out, all a-tremble, — 
" In thy mercy, O God / let me die / " 

Pass on ! It is useless to linger 

While others are claiming your care ; 
There is need of your delicate finger, 

For your womanly sympathy, there ! 
There are sick ones athirst for caressing — 

There are dying ones raving of home — 
There are wounds to be bound with a blessing — 

And shrouds to make ready for some. 

They have gathered about you the harvest 

Of death, in its ghastliest view ; 
The nearest as well as the farthest 

Is here with the traitor and true! 
And crowned with your beautiful patience, 

Made sunny with love at the heart, 
You must balsam the wounds of a nation, 

Nor falter, nor shrink from your part ! 

Up and down through the wards, where the fever 

Stalks noisome, and gaunt and impure, 
You must go with your steadfast endeavor 

To comfort, to counsel, to cure ! 
I grant that the task's superhuman, 

But strength will be given to you 
To do for those dear ones what woman 

Alone in her pity can do. 

And the lips of the mothers will bless you 

As angels sweet visaged and pale ! 
And the little ones run to caress you, 

While the wives and the sisters cry " Hail !" 
But e'en if you drop down unheeded, 

What matter ? God's ways are the best ; 
You've poured out your life where 'twas needed, 

And He will take care of the rest. 

Anonymous {Southern). 



250 Ittgk-iErljfo^ja 



A WOMAN OF THE WAR. 

[ The story told in this poem is literally true. Its hero- 
ine, Margaret Augusta Peterson, lived at Rochester, 
N. Y.; and when, after the battles of the Wilderness, the 
hospitals of that city were filled with wounded men, she 
offered her services, and zuas accepted, as a nurse, at St. 
Mary's Hospital. She died September i, 1864, at the age 
of twenty-three ; and her grave and the surgeon's may be 
seen in Mount Hope Cemetery, Rochester, .] 

Through the sombre arch of that gateway tower 
Where my humblest townsman rides at last, 

You may spy the bells of a nodding flower, 
On a double mound that is thickly grassed. 

And between the spring and the summer time, 

Or ever the lilac's bloom is shed, 
When they come with banners and wreaths and 
rhyme, 

To deck the tombs of the nation's dead, 

They find there a little flag in the grass, 

And fling a handful of roses down, 
And pause a moment before they pass 

To the Captain's grave with the gilded crown. 

But if perchance they seek to recall 

What name, what deeds, these honors declare, 
They cannot tell, they are silent all 

As the noiseless harebell nodding there. 

She was tall, with an almost manly grace, 

And young, with strange wisdom for one so 
young, 

And fair with more than a woman's face ; 
With dark, deep eyes, and a mirthful tongue. 

The poor and the fatherless knew her smile ; 

The friend in sorrow had seen her tears ; 
She had studied the ways of the rough world's 
guile, 

And read the romance of historic years. 









IBugte-Erljntts 259 



What she might have been in these times of ours, 
At once it is easy and hard to guess ; 

For always a riddle are half-used powers, 
And always a power is lovingness. 

But her fortunes fell upon evil days — 

If days are evil when evil dies, — 
And she was not one who could stand at gaze 

Where the hopes of humanity fall and rise. 

Nor could she dance to the viol's tune 

When the drum was throbbing throughout the 
land, 
Or dream in the light of the summer moon 

When Treason was clenching his mailed hand. 

Through the long gray hospital's corridor 
She journeyed many a mournful league, 

And her light foot fell on the oaken floor 
As if it never could know fatigue. 

She stood by the good old surgeon's side, 

And the sufferers smiled as they saw her stand ; 

She wrote, and the mothers marvelled and cried 
At their darling soldiers' feminine hand. 

She was last in the ward when the lights burned low, 
And Sleep called a truce to his foeman Pain ; 

At the midnight cry she was first to go, 
To bind up the bleeding wound again. 

For sometimes the wreck of a man would rise, 
Weird and gaunt in the watch-lamp's gleam, 

And tear away bandage and splints and ties, 
Fighting the battle all o'er in his dream. 

No wonder the youngest surgeon felt 

A charm in the presence of that brave soul, 

Through weary weeks, as she nightly knelt 
With the letter from home or the doctor's dole. 



afifl Hugk-fErfpfloa 



He heard her called, and he heard her blessed. 
With many a patriot's parting breath ; 

And ere his soul to itself confessed, 

Love leaped to life in those vigils of death. 

" O, fly to your home !" came a whisper dread, 
" For now the pestilence walks by night." 

" The greater the need of me here," she said, 
And bared her arm for the lancet's bite. 

Was there death, green death, in the atmosphere ? 

Was the bright steel poisoned ? Who can tell ! 
Her weeping friends gathered beside her bier, 

And the clergyman told them all was well. 

Well — alas that it should be so ! 

When a nation's debt reaches reckoning-day — 
Well for it to be able, but woe 

To the generation that's called to pay ! 

Down from the long gray hospital came 
Every boy in blue who could walk the floor ; 

The sick and the wounded, the blind and the lame ; 
Formed two long files from her father's door. 

There was grief in many a manly breast, 
While men's tears fell as the coffin passed ; 

And thus she went to the world of rest, 
Martial and maidenly up to the last. 

And that youngest surgeon, was he to blame? — 
He held the lancet — Heaven only knows. 

No matter ; his heart broke all the same, 
And he laid him down, and never arose. 

So Death received, in his greedy hand, 
Two precious coins of the awful price 

That purchased freedom for this dear land — 
For master and bondman — yea, bought it twice. 



Such fates too often such women are for ! 

God grant the Republic a large increase, 
To match the heroes in time of war, 

And mother the children in time of peace. 
Rossiter Johnson. 



THE LAST REGIMENT. 

["/» a pretty little village in Louisiana, destroyed by 
shells toward the end of the war, on a bayou back from the 
river, a great number of very old men had been left by their 
sons and grandsons, while they went to the war. And these 
old men, many of them veterans of other wars, formed 
themselves into a regiment, made for themselves uniforms, 
picked up old flint-lock guns, even mounted a rusty old can- 
non, and so prepared to go to battle if ever the war came 
within their reach. Toward the close of the war, some gun- 
boats came down the river, shelling the shore. The old men 
heard the firing, and, gathering together, they set out with 
their old muskets and rusty old cannon to try to reach 
the river over the corduroy road through the cypress 
swamp. They marched out right merrily that hot day, 
shouting and bantering to e?icourage each other, the dim 
fires of their old eyes burning with desire of battle, al- 
though not one of them was young enough or strong enough 
to stand erect. And they never came back any more. The 
shells from the gunboats set the dense and sultry woods on 
fire. The old men were shut in by the flames — the gray 
beards and the gray moss and the gray smoke together."} 

The dying land cried ; they heard her death call ; 

These bent, bearded men stopped, listened in- 
tent ; 
Then rusty old muskets rushed down from the wall, 

And squirrel-guns gleamed in that regiment, 
And grandsires marched, old muskets in hand, 
The last men left in the whole Southland. 

The gray grandsires ! They were seen to reel, 
Their rusty old muskets a wearisome load : 



2S2 Hugk-iErfjfleH 



They marched, scarce tall as the cannon's wheel, 

Marched merrily on up the corduroy road ; 
These gray old boys, all broken and bent, 
Marched out, the gallant last regiment. 

But, oh ! that march through the cypress trees, 
When zest and excitement had died away ! 

That desolate march through the marsh to the 
knees — 
These gray grandsires in their robes of gray, 

These gray grandsires all broken and bent, — 

The gray moss mantling the regiment. 

The gray bent men and the mosses gray ! 

The dull dead gray of the uniform ! 
The dull dead skies, like to lead that day, 

Dull, dead, heavy, and deathly warm ! 
Oh, what meant more than the cypress meant, 
With its mournful moss, to that regiment ? 

That deadly march through the marshes deep I — 
That sultry day, and the deeds in vain ! 

The rest on the cypress roots, the sleep — 
The sleeping never to rise again ! 

The rust on the guns ! The rust and the rent — 

That dying and desolate regiment ! 

The muskets left leaning against the trees ! 

The cannon wheels clogged from the moss o'er- 
head ! 
The cypress trees kneeling on obstinate knees 

As gray men kneeled by the gray men dead ! 
A lone bird rising, long-legged and gray, 
Slow rising, and rising, and drifting away ! 

The dank dead mosses gave back no sound ; 

The drums lay silent as the drummers there ; 
The sultry stillness was so profound 

You might have heard an unuttered prayer; 
And ever and ever, and far away, 
Kept drifting that desolate bird in gray. 






lhigl*-1Erlpi*H 2fi3 



The long gray shrouds of that cypress wood, 

Like veils that sweep where the gray nuns 

weep — 
That cypress moss o'er the dankness deep, 

Why, the cypress roots they were running blood ; 

And to right and to left lay an old man dead — 

A mourning cypress set foot and head. 

'Twas man hunting man in the wilderness there ; 

'Twas man hunting man, and hunting to slay ; 

But nothing was found but death that day, 
And possibly God, in that poisonous air ; 
And possibly God — and that bird in gray 
Slow rising, and rising, and drifting away. 

Now down in the swamp where the gray men fell 
The fire-flies volley and volley at night, 

And black men belated are heard to tell 
Of the ghosts in gray in a mimic fight — 

Of the ghosts of the gallant old men in gray 

Who silently died in the swamp that day. 

Joaquin Miller. 



"SHOT THROUGH THE HEART." 

XIn memory of Lieutenant fohn R. Porter, of Alabama^ 
who fell, shot through the heart, at the battle of Frank- 
lin, Tenn., November 30, 1864.] 

Across the brown and wintry morn, 

Borne on the soft wind's wing, 
The weird sweet chords of a New Year's Song 

Are struck by the coming Spring — 

Ah, would 'twere last year's Spring ! 

Under the leaves the violet bends, 

Laden with scented breath ; 
Do they bend and blow thus sweetly 

Where the wooing air is death ? 
Can flowers bloom in death ? 



2fi4 lugk-IErfjntti 



Out in the bridal robe of white 

Sweet hawthorn decks the lane ; 
Who tuned the windharp's thrilling string 

To the sad, sad minor strain? 

Hark ! that sad minor strain ! 

I think, as I see the whitening bloom 

Drift down in a fleecy cloud, 
Not of the mist of bridal veils, 

But the chill of an icy shroud — 
Snow is the soldier's shroud. 

There's a whisper of crocus and hyacinth 

Where fairies watch their birth ; 
Methinks like little white babes they lie, 

Still-born on their mother-earth — 

Dead babes on the mother-earth. 

Where the dear warm blood flowed out so free, 
Did the wild wind steal its moans 

That fill me with anguish of unshed tears ? 
'Tis the Banshee's shivering groans ! — 

List ! it shivers, and sobs, and groans ! 

O spirit of sorrow, Banshee white ! 

Wail on, for 1 cannot sleep ; 
Coldness and darkness wander with me, 
The vigil of woe to keep — 

Pale woe her watch must keep. 
***** 
In the long, long march, did he track the snow 

With his weary bleeding feet ? 
Was his dear face cold in the pelting rain, 
Or numbed by the blinding sleet ? 

Barefoot through the blinding sleet ! 

Was he pale from the pain, the hunger pain, 

Or did he step proud and strong 
To the onward note from the bugle's throat 

When the boys cheered loud and long ? 
Oh, the march was long, so long ! 






IlugIg-1Erf?flg;g 2fi5 

Where, where is the sword whose gleaming blade 

Flashed up against the sky, 
And wrote in a broad white quivering line 

How Southern men could die ! — ■ 
Thus martyrs righting die ! 

Ho ! Walthalls's men, and Brantley's line I 

The good steel must not rust ; 
His name must be the battle-cry, 
His murderers bite the dust ! 

They yet shall gnaw the dust ! 
***** 

" Shot through the heart /" My own stands still, 

With its breaking, breaking pain ; 
All, all grows dark, but the words of fire 

That burn my reeling brain — 
Rent heart and aching brain. 

Who sprang to his side in the foremost ranks, 

And over him bent the knee, 
To smooth from his brow the dark damp hair, 

And kiss him again for me ? 

Who kissed his dear lips for me ? 

Kind stranger, guard that sacred spot ; 

He died to free thy land ; 
His name thou'lt find on rude head-board, 

Carved there by pitying hand — 
God bless that soldier's hand ! 

We've watched and nursed your dying ones, 
Have wreathed their graves with flowers • 

Will any gentle hand thus wreathe 
That holy mound of ours ? 

Oh, shield that grave of ours ! 

Oh, the parching thirst and numbing cold 

And the hunger-pain are o'er ; 
The weary feet, fresh-sandalled now, 

Rest on the golden shore — 
Fair, God-lit, healing shore. 



In his threadbare suit, with its honor-stains, 

They laid him down to rest ; 
Did they fold our flag, with its spotless stars. 

On my poor dead brother's breast ? 
Oh, dear, dear bleeding breast ! 

Oh, say that I'm mad or dreaming — 

That Joy will come once more ! 
Then the Summer woods of the bright Southland 

May leaf as they leaved of yore ! 
With Life they sprung of yore ! 

Then the hills may don their arabesque, 

And the Arcenciel may shine, 
While the rose on the cheek of the blushing year 

Woos the roses back to mine : 
The roses have died on mine. 

No ; the Spring will pass, and Summer fruit, 

And Fall sheaves gild the ground ; 
But the sad weird song the Banshee sings 

Will follow the whole year round — 

Dark Winter the whole year round ! 

Down in the glen, the dogwood white, 

By the maple's living red, 
But brings to mind the cold, cold sheet 

That shrouds the bleeding dead ! — 
Snow shrouds our darling dead I 

Oh, weary Winter has almost gone, 
With its Christmas berries swung ; 

They seem but drops of human blood 
From human anguish wrung! 

O God, our hearts are wrung ! 

" Killed outright /" — Oh, wretched dream ! 

When, when shall I awake ? 
If the words ring on, thus wildly on, 
My tortured heart must break ! — 
God help me ere it break ! 

Ina Marie Porter. 



Sugb-i£rl|0^0 afir 



SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA. 

{This popular song was written while its author, Adju- 
tant Byers, of the Fifth Iowa Regiment, was a prisoner at 
Columbia, S. C. Of its origin he says : ' ' There are hun- 
dreds of old comrades who remember the afternoon in the 
prison-pen at Columbia when our glee club said, * Now we 
are going to sing something about Billy Sherman ! ' and with 
what rousing cheers the song and the writer were welcomed. 
The rebel officers ran in to see what was loose among the 
prisoners, and they, too, had music in their souls, and said 
if the glee club would sing ' Dixie Land ' they might sing 
1 Sherman s March to the Sea ' also ; and so for weeks our 
glee club — the only sunshine we had in prison— made the 
old barrack walls ring with songs of the blue and the gray," 
The piece attracted the attention of General Sherman, who 
sent for the author and attached him to his staff. \ 

Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain 

That frowned on the river below, 
As we stood by our guns in the morning, 

And eagerly watched for the foe ; 
When a rider came out of the darkness 

That hung over mountain and tree, 
And shouted, " Boys, up and be ready ! 

For Sherman will march to the sea ! " 

Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman 

Went up from each valley and glen, 
And the bugles re-echoed the music 

That came from the lips of the men ; 
For we knew that the stars in our banner 

More bright in their splendor would be, 
And that blessings from Northland would greet us 

When Sherman marched down to the sea. 

Then forward, boys ! forward to battle ! 

We marched on our wearisome way, 
We stormed the wild hills of Resaca — 

God bless those who fell on that day ! 
Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory, 

Frowned down on the flag of the free ; 



2fi? luglg-IErfrogB 



But the East and the West bore our standard, 
And Sherman marched on to the sea. 

Still onward we pressed, till our banners 

Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls, 
And the blood of the patriot dampened 

The soil where the traitor-flag fails ; 
We paused not to weep for the fallen 

Who slept by each river and tree, 
Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel, 

As Sherman marched down to the sea. 

Oh, proud was our army that morning, 

That stood where the pine darkly towers, 
When Sherman said, " Boys, you are weary, 

But to-day fair Savannah is ours !" 
Then sang we the song of our chieftain, 

That echoed o'er river and lea, 
And the stars in our banner shone brighter 

When Sherman marched down to the sea. 

Samuel H. M. Byers. 



SONG OF SHERMAN'S ARMY. 

A PILLAR of fire by night, 

A pillar of smoke by day, 
Some hours of march — then a halt to fight, 

And so we hold our way ; 
Some hours of march — then a halt to fight, 

As on we hold our way. 

Over mountain and plain and stream, 

To some bright Atlantic bay, 
With our arms aflash in the morning beam, 

We hold our festal way ; 
With our arms aflash in the morning beam, 

We hold our checkless way. 



lugk-Erlfow 2fi9 



There is terror wherever we come, 

There is terror and wild dismay 
When they see the Old Flag- and hear the drum 

Announce us on the way ; 
When they see the Old Flag and hear the drum 

Beating time to our onward way. 

Never unlimber a gun 

For those villainous lines in gray ; 
Draw sabres, and at 'em upon the run ! 

'Tis thus we clear our way ; 
Draw sabres, and soon you will see them run, 

As we hold our conquering way. 

The loyal, who long have been dumb, 

Are loud in their cheers to-day ; 
And the old men out on their crutches come, 

To see us hold our way ; 
And the old men out on their crutches come, 

To bless us on our way. 

Around us in rear and flanks 

Their futile squadrons play ; 
With a sixty-mile front of steady ranks, 

W T e hold our checkless way ; 
With a sixty-mile front of serried ranks, 

Our banner clears the way. 

Hear the spattering fire that starts 

From the woods and copses gray ! 
There is just enough fighting to quicken our hearts, 

As we frolic along the way ; 
There is just enough fighting to warm our hearts, 

As we rattle along the way. 

Upon different roads abreast 

The heads of our columns gay, 
With fluttering flags all forward prest, 

Hold on their conquering way ; 
With fluttering flags to victory prest, 

We hold our glorious way ! 



27a Uugb-1Erf|0£a 



Ah, traitors who bragged so bold 

In the sad war's early day ! 
Did nothing predict you should ever behold 

The Old Flag come this way ? 
Did nothing predict you should yet behold 

Our banner come back this way ? 

By Heaven ! 'tis a gala march, 

'Tis a picnic or a play ; 
Of all our long war, 'tis the crowning arch, — 

Hip, hip ! for Sherman's way ! 
Of all our long war, this crowns the arch, — 

For Sherman and Grant, hurra ! 

Charles G. Halpine. 



ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS. 

Who are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly 

human, 
With your woolly-white and turban 'd head, and 

bare bony feet ? 
Why, rising by the roadside here, do you the colors 

greet ? 

('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines. 
Forth from thy hovel door, thou, Ethiopia, com 'st to 

me, 
As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea.) 

Me, master, years a hundred, since, from my par- 
ents sundered, 

A little child, they caught me as the savage beast 
is caught, 

Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver 
brought. 

No further does she say, but lingering all the day, 
Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls 
her darkling eye, 



SU0k~Edjfl£0 2H 



And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons mov- 
ing by. 

What is it, fateful woman, so blear, hardly human ? 
Why wag your head with turban bound, yellow, red 

and green ? 
Are the things so strange and marvellous you see or 

have seen ? 

Walt Whitman. 



SAVANNAH. 

Thou hast not drooped thy stately head, 
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed ! 
Not like a lamb to slaughter led, 
But with the lion's monarch tread, 
Thou comest to thy battle bed, 

Savannah ! O Savannah ! 

Thine arm of flesh is girded strong ; 
The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong ; 
To thee the triple cords belong 
Of woe and death and shameless wrong, 
And spirit vaunted long, too long ! 
Savannah ! O Savannah ! 

No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair ; 
Only the martyrs' blood is there ; 
It gleams upon thy bosom bier, 
It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer, 
And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear, 
Savannah ! O Savannah ! 

Thy clean white hand is opened wide 
For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride ; 
The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side, 
Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide, 
Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide, 
Savannah ! O Savannah ! 



&* Sttgk-1ErI|0?0 



What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers, 
Still at thy feet the old oak towers ; 
Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers, 
And things of beauty, love, and flowers 
Are smiling o'er this land of ours, 

My sunny home, Savannah ! 

There is no film before thy sight, — 
Thou seest woe and death and night, 
And blood upon thy banner bright ; 
But in thy full wrath's kindled might 
What carest thou for woe or night ? 
My rebel home, Savannah ! 

Come — for the crown is on thy head ! 
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed ; 
Not like a lamb to slaughter led, 
But with the lion's monarch tread, 
Oh ! come unto thy battle bed, 
Savannah ! O Savannah ! 

Alethea S. Burroughs. 



THE FOE AT THE GATES. 
[Charleston, 1865.] 

Ring round her ! children of her glorious skies, 
Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great; 

Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes, 
Then close your ranks and face the threatening 
fate. 

Ring round her ! with a wall of horrent steel 
Confront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give ; 

And in her hour of anguish let her feel 

That ye can die whom she has taught to live. 

Ring round her ! swear, by every lifted blade, 
To shield from wrong the mother who gave you 
birth ; 



ftigl*-£dfa*0 273 



That never violent hand on her be laid, 

Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth. 

Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt ! 

And doubly damned who casts one look behind ! 
Ye who are men ! with unsheathed sword, and shout, 

Up with her banner ! give it to the wind ! 

Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide, 

Till every ringing avenue repeat 
The gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tide 

Calls to the sea-waves beating round her feet. 

Sons, to the rescue ! spurred and belted, come ! 

Kneeling, with clasp 'd hands, she invokes you now 
By the sweet memories of your childhood's home, 

By every manly hope and filial vow, 

To save her proud soul from that loathed thrall 
Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name ; 

Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall, 
Spare her — she sues — the agony and shame. 

From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled ; 

Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre, 
And thus, with paean sung and anthem rolled, 

Give her unspotted to the God of Fire. 

Gather around her sacred ashes then, 

Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain, 

Die ! as becomes a race of free-born men, 
Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain. 

So, dying, ye shall win a high renown, 
If not in life, at least by death, set free ; 

And send her fame through endless ages down — 
The last grand holocaust of Liberty. 

John Dickson Bruns. 



2r4 Hugk-IEtfiKtta 



FLAG OF TRUCE. 

Let us bury our dead : 
Since we may not of vantage or victory prate ; 
And our army, so grand in the onslaught of late, 
All crippled has shrunk to its trenches instead, — 

For the carnage was great : 

Let us bury our dead. 

Let us bury our dead : 
Oh, we thought to surprise you, as, panting and 

flushed, 
From our works to assault you we valiantly rushed : 
But you fought like the gods — till we faltered and 
fled, 

And the earth, how it blushed ! 
Let us bury our dead. 

So we bury our dead — 
From the field ; from the range and the crash of the 

gun; 
From the kisses of love ; from the face of the sun ! 
Oh, the silence they keep while we dig their last bed ! 

Lay them in, one by one : 

So we bury our dead. 

Fast we bury our dead : 
All too scanty the time, let us work as we may, 
For the foe burns for strife and our ranks are at 

bay: 
O'er the graves we are digging what legions will 
tread — 

Swift, and eager to slay, 
Though we bury our dead. 

See, we bury our dead ! 
Oh, they fought as the young and the dauntless will 

fight, 
Who fancy their war is a war for the right ! 



JBttglg-grffflgfi 2^5 



Right or wrong, it was precious — this blood they 
have shed : 

Surely God will requite, 
And we bury our dead. 

Yes, we bury our dead. 
If they erred as they fought, will He charge them 

with blame, 
When their hearts beat aright, and the truth was 

their aim ? 
Nay, never in vain has such offering bled — 
North or South, 'tis the same — 
Fast we bury our dead. 

Thus we bury our dead. 
Oh, ye men of the North, with your banner that 

waves 
Far and wide o'er our Southland, made rugged with 

graves, 
Are ye verily right, that so well ye have sped ? 
Were we wronging our slaves ? 
Well — we bury our dead. 

Ah, we bury our dead ! 
And granting you all you have claimed on the 

whole — 
Are we 'spoiled of our birthright and stricken in 

soul, 
To be spurned at Heaven's court when its records 
are read ? 

Nay, expound not the scroll 
Till we bury our dead ! 

Haste and bury our dead ! 
No time for revolving of right and of wrong ; 
We must venture our souls with the rest of the 

throng ; 
And our God must be Judge, as He sits overhead, 

Of the weak and the strong, 

While we bury our dead. 



Z7B %I9l*-&lpI*0 



Now peace to our dead : 
Fair grow the sweet blossoms of Spring where they 

lie ... . 
Hark ! the musketry roars, and the rifles reply ; 
Oh, the fight will be close and the carnage be 
dread ; 

To the ranks let us hie, — 
We have buried our dead. 

Amanda T.Jones. 



" STACK ARMS !" 

[Written in prison at Fort Delaware, Del., on hear* 
ing of the surrender of General Lee.] 

" Stack Arms !" I've gladly heard the cry 

When, weary with the dusty tread 
Of marching troops, as night drew nigh, 

I sank upon my soldier bed, 
And calmly slept ; the starry dome 

Of heaven's blue arch my canopy, 
And mingled with my dreams of home 

The thoughts of Peace and Liberty. 

" Stack Arms /" I've heard it when the shout 

Exulting ran along our line, 
Of foes hurled back in bloody rout, 

Captured, dispersed ; its tones divine 
Then came to mine enraptured ear, 

Guerdon of duty nobly done, 
And glistened on my cheek the tear 

Of grateful joy for victory won. 

" Stack Arms /" In faltering accents, slow 
And sad, it creeps from tongue to tongue, 

A broken, murmuring wail of woe, 
From manly hearts by anguish wrung. 



!u0k-iErf}0*0 an 



Like victims of a midnight dream, 
We move, we know not how nor why ; 

For life and hope like phantoms seem, 
And it would be relief — to die ! 

Joseph Blynth Alston. 



"ASHES OF GLORY." 

FOLD up the gorgeous silken sun, 

By bleeding martyrs blest, 
And heap the laurels it has won 

Above its place of rest. 

No trumpet's note need harshly blare — 

No drum funereal roll — 
Nor trailing sables drape the bier 

That frees a dauntless soul. 

It lived with Lee, and decked his brow 
From Fate's empyreal palm ; 

It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now, 
As spotless and as calm. 

It was outnumbered — not outdone ; 

And they shall shuddering tell, 
Who struck the blow, its latest gun 

Flashed ruin as it fell. 

Sleep, shrouded ensign ! — not the breeze 

That smote the victor tar 
With death, across the heaving seas 

Of fiery Trafalgar ; — 

Not Arthur's knights, amid the gloom 
Their knightly deeds have starred, 

Nor Gallic Henry's matchless plume, 
Nor peerless-born Bayard ; — 



2?a lugfc-lErtjfltt! 



Not all that antique fables feign 

And Orient dreams disgorge, 
Nor yet the silver cross of Spain, 

And lion of St. George, — 

Can bid thee pale. Proud emblem, still 

Thy crimson glory shines 
Beyond the lengthened shades that fill 

Their proudest kingly lines. 

Sleep, in thine own historic night, — 

And be thy blazoned scroll : 
A warrior 's banner takes its flight 

To greet the warrior's soul! 

A. J. Requier. 



THE CONQUERED BANNER. 

[This is one of the many famous poems whose authorship 
has been in dispute. Simms, in his " War Poetry of the 
South,' 7 credits it to u A?ina Peyre Dinnies, of Louisiana ;" 
and Longfellow 's "Poems of Places " gives it as anonymous. 
But Father Ryan is unquestionably the author. It appears 
in the complete edition of his Poems {Baltimore, 1883), and 
he has written the editor of the present collection: "I 
wrote ' The Conquered Banner' at Knoxville, Tenn., one 
evening soon after Lee's surrender, when my mind was en- 
grossed with thoughts of our dead soldiers and dead cause. It 
was first published in the New York ' Freeman 7 s "Journal? 
I never had any idea that the poem, written in less than an 
hour, would attain celebrity. No doubt the circumstances 
of its appearance lent it much of its fame. In expressing 
my own emotions at the time, I echoed the unuttered feel- 
ings of the Southern people ; and so ' The Conquered Ban- 
ner 7 became the requiem of the Lost Cause. ."] 

FURL that Banner, for 'tis weary, 
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary : 

Furl it, fold it, — it is best ; 
For there's not a man to wave it, 
And there's not a sword to save it, 
And there's not one left to lave it 






3itgl*-&lprai 2^9 



In the blood which heroes gave it, 
And its foes now scorn and brave it : 
Furl it, hide it, — let it rest ! 

Take that Banner down ! 'tis tattered ; 
Broken is its staff and shattered, 
And the valiant hosts are scattered 

Over whom it floated high ; 
Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it, 
Hard to think there's none to hold it, 
Hard that those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh ! 

Furl that Banner — furl it sadly ; 
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly. 
And ten thousands wildly, madly, 

Swore it should forever wave — 
Swore that foemen's swords could never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
And that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom or their grave ! 

Furl it ! — for the hands that grasped it, 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 

Cold and dead are lying low ; 
And the Banner — it is trailing, 
While around it sounds the wailing 

Of its people in their woe ; 
For though conquered, they adore it—- 
Love the cold dead hands that bore it, 
Weep for those who fell before it, 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it ; 
And oh, wildly they deplore it, 

Now to furl and fold it so ! 

Furl that Banner ! True, 'tis gory, 
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, 
And 'twill live in song and story 

Though its folds are in the dust ! 



2B0 H«0k-l;r!j0fl0i 



For its fame on brightest pages, 
Penned by poets and by sages, 
Shall go sounding down the ages — 

Furl its folds though now we must ! 

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly ; 
Treat it gently — it is holy, 

For it droops above the dead ; 
Touch it not — unfold it never ; 
Let it droop there, furled forever, — 

For its people's hopes are fled. 

Abram J. Ryan. 



IN THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING. 

Fair were our visions ! Oh, they were as grand 

As ever floated out of faerie land ; 
Children were we in single faith, 
But God-like children, whom nor death 

Nor threat nor danger drove from honor's path, 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

Proud were our men, as pride of birth could render, 
As violets, our women pure and tender ; 

And when they spoke, their voice did thrill 

Until at eve the whip-poor-will, 
At morn the mocking-bird, were mute and still, 

In the land where we were dreaming. 

And we had graves that covered more of glory 
Than ever tracked tradition's ancient story ; 

And in our dream we wove the thread 

Of principles for which had bled 
And suffered long our own immortal dead, 

In the land where we were dreaming. 

Though in our land we had both bond and free, 
Both were content ; and so God let them be ;— 



luglg-jErfragfl 2bi 



'Till envy coveted our land, 
And those fair fields our valor won ; 
But little recked we, for we still slept on, 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

Our sleep grew troubled and our dreams grew 

wild — 
Red meteors flashed across our heaven's field ; 

Crimson the moon ; between the Twins 

Barbed arrows fly, and then begins 
Such strife as when disorder's Chaos reigns, 

In the land where we were dreaming. 

Down from her sun-lit heights smiled Liberty 
And waved her cap in sign of Victory — 
The world approved, and everywhere, 
Except where growled the Russian bear, 
The good, the brave, the just gave us their prayer 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

We fancied that a Government was ours — 
We challenged place among the world's great 
powers ; 

We talked in sleep of Rank, Commission, 

Until so life-like grew our vision 
That he who dared to doubt but met derision, 

In the land where we were dreaming. 

We looked on high : a banner there was seen, 
Whose field was blanched and spotless in its sheen — 
Chivalry's cross its Union bears, 
And veterans swearing by their scars 
Vowed they would bear it through a hundred wars, 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

A hero came amongst us as we slept ; 

At first he lowly knelt — then rose and wept ; 

Then gathering up a thousand spears 

He swept across the field of Mars ; 
Then bowed farewell and walked beyond the stars, 

In the land where we were dreaming. 



2B2 llugl?-iErfj0*B 



We looked again 1 another figure still 
Gave hope, and nerved each individual will — 
Full of grandeur, clothed with power, 
Self-poised, erect, he ruled the hour 
With stern, majestic sway — of strength a tower, 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder God, 
Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood, 
Rome felt herself secure and free, 
So, " Richmond's safe," we said, while we 
Beheld a bronzed hero — God-like Lee, 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls — 
As wakes the mother when the infant falls — 
As starts the traveller when around 
His sleeping couch the fire-bells sound — 
So woke our nation with a single bound, 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

Woe ! woe is me ! the startled mother cried — 
While we have slept our noble sons have died ! 

Woe ! woe is me ! how strange and sad 

That all our glorious vision's fled, 
And left us nothing real but the dead, 

In the land where we were dreaming. 

Daniel B. Lucas. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

A HORATIAN ODE. 

Not as when some great Captain falls 
In battle, where his country calls, 
Beyond the struggling lines 
That push his dread designs 



jJttglg-3:rf?flg0 2B3 



To doom, by some stray ball struck dead 
Or, in the last charge, at the head 

Of his determined men, 

Who must be victors then. 

Nor as when sink the civic great, 

The safer pillars of the State, 
Whose calm, mature, wise words 
Suppress the need of swords. 

With no such tears as e'er were shed 
Above the noblest of our dead 

Do we to-day deplore 

The Man that is no more. 

Our sorrow hath a wider scope, 
Too strange for fear, too vast for hope, 
A wonder, blind and dumb, 
That waits — what is to come ! 

Not more astounded had we been 
If Madness, that dark night, unseen, 
Had in our chambers crept, 
And murdered while we slept. 

We woke to find a mourning earth, 
Our Lares shivered on the hearth, 

The roof-tree fallen, all 

That could affright, appall ! 

Such thunderbolts, in other lands, 
Have smitten the rod from royal hands, 
But spared, with us, till now, 
Each laurelled Caesar's brow. 

No Caesar he whom we lament, 
A Man without a precedent, 

Sent, it would seem, to do 

His work, and perish, too. 



2g4 jfoglg-jErfrflga 



Not by the weary cares of State, 

The endless tasks, which will not wait, 

Which, often done in vain, 

Must yet be done again : 

Not in the dark, wild tide of war, 
Which rose so high, and rolled so far, 

Sweeping from sea to sea 

In awful anarchy : 

Four fateful years of mortal strife, 
Which slowly drained the nation's life, 
(Yet for each drop that ran 
There sprang an armed man !) 

Not then ; but when, by measures meet, 

By victory, and by defeat, 
By courage, patience, skill, 
The people's fixed " We will!" 

Had pierced, had crushed Rebellion dead, 
Without a hand, without a head, 

At last, when all was well, 

He fell, O how he fell ! 

The time, the place, the stealing shape, 
The coward shot, the swift escape, 

The wife, the widow's scream, — 

It is a hideous Dream ! 

A dream ? What means this pageant, then ? 
These multitudes of solemn men, 

Who speak not when they meet, 

But throng the silent street ? 

The flags half-mast that late so high 
Flaunted at each new victory ? 

(The stars no brightness shed, 

But bloody looks the red !) 



littgk-iErljfl?!! 2B5 



The black festoons that stretch for miles, 
And turn the streets to funeral aisles ? 

(No house too poor to show 

The nation's badge of woe.) 

The cannon's sudden, sullen boom, 
The bells that toll of death and doom, 
The rolling of the drums, 
The dreadful car that comes ? 



Peace ! Let the long procession come ; 
For hark, the mournful muffled drum, 

The trumpet's wail afar, 

And see, the awful car ! 

Peace ! Let the sad procession go, 
While cannon boom and bells toll slow. 

And go, thou sacred car, 

Bearing our woe afar ! 

Go, darkly borne, from State to State, 
Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait 

To honor all they can 

The dust of that good man. 

Go, grandly borne, with such a train 
As greatest kings might die to gain. 

The just, the wise, the brave, 

Attend thee to the grave. 

And you, the soldiers of our wars, 
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, 
Salute him once again, 
Your late commander — slain ! 

Yes, let your tears indignant fall, 
But leave your muskets on the wall ; 
Your country needs you now 
Beside the forge — the plough. 



2bh Utigk-IErJjiwa 



(When Justice shall unsheathe her brand, 
If Mercy may not stay her hand, 

Nor would we have it so, 

She must direct the blow.) 

And you, amid the master-race, 
Who seem so strangely out of place, 

Know ye who cometh ? He 

Who hath declared ye free. 



., — ~. j — — . 

Bow while the body passes — nay, 
Fall on your knees, and weep, and pray 
Weep, weep — I would ye might — 
Your poor black faces white ! 

And, children, you must come in bands, 
With garlands in your little hands, 

Of blue and white and red, 

To strew before the dead. 

So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes 
The Fallen to his last repose. 

Beneath no mighty dome, 

But in his modest home ; 

The churchyard where his children rest, 
The quiet spot that suits him best, 
There shall his grave be made, 
And there his bones be laid. 

And there his countrymen shall come, 
With memory proud, with pity dumb, 

And strangers far and near, 

For many and many a year. 

For many a year and many an age, 
While History on her ample page 

The virtues shall enroll 

Of that Paternal Soul. 



Richard Henry Stoddard. 



Uttglg-iErfyflgH 2flr 



WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD 
BLOOM'D. 

[" I think this poem and ' Lowell's Commemoration Ode,' 
each in its own way, the most notable elegies resulting from 
the war and its episodes" — E. C. Stedman.] 

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd, 

And the great star early droop'd in the western sky 

in the night, 
I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning 

spring. 

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, 
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the 

west, 
And thought of him I love. 

O powerful western fallen star ! 

O shades of night — O moody, tearful night ! 

O great star disappear'd — 6 the black murk that 

hides the star ! 
O cruel hands that hold me powerless — O helpless 

soul of me ! 
O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my 

soul. 

In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house near 

the white-wash 'd palings, 
Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shap'd 

leaves of rich green, 
With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with 

the perfume strong I love, 
With every leaf a miracle — and from this bush in the 

door-yard, 
With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped 

leaves of rich green, 
A sprig with its flower I break. 

In the swamp in seclud'd recesses 

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. 



2fla Htt0fc~i;rljtf?j0 



Solitary the thrush, 

The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the set- 
tlements, 
Sings by himself a song. 

Song of the bleeding throat, 

Death's outlet song of life, (for well, dear brother, I 

know 
If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely 

die.) 

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, 
Amid lanes, and through old woods, where lately the 

violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray 

debris, 
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, 

passing the endless grass, 
Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from 

its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen, 
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in 

the orchards, 
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, 
Night and day journeys a coffin. 

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, 

Through day and night with the great cloud dark- 
ening the land, 

With the pomp of the inloop'd flags, with the cities 
draped in black, 

With the show of the States themselves as of crape- 
veil'd women standing, 

With processions long and winding and the flam- 
beaus of the night, 

With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of 
faces and the unbared heads, 

With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin and the 
sombre faces, 

With dirges through the night, with the thousand 
voices rising strong and solemn, 



With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd 

around the coffin, 
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs — 

where amid these you journey, 
With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang, 
Here, coffin that slowly passes, 
I give you my sprig of lilac. 

****** 

how shall I warble myself for the dead one there 

I loved ? 
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet 

soul that has gone ? 
And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him 

I love ? 

Sea-winds blown from east and west, 

Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the 

Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting, 
These and with these and the breath of my chant 
I'll perfume the grave of him I love. 

****** 

To the tally of my soul, 

Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, 
With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the 
night. 

Loud in the pines and cedars dim, 
Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp per- 
fume, 
And I with my comrades there in the night. 

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclos'd, 
As to long panoramas of visions. 

And I saw askant the armies, 

1 saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle- 

flags, 
Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd 
with missiles I saw them, 



290 Su0lr-iErIj00H 



And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and 

torn and bloody, 
And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and 

all in silence,) 
And the staffs all splinter 'd and broken. 

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, 

And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, 

I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers 

of the war, 
But I saw they were not as was thought, 
They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not, 
The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd, 
And the wife and the child and the musing comrade 

suffer'd, 
And the armies that remained suffer'd. 

Passing the visions, passing the night, 

Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands, 

Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying 
song of my soul, 

Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying 
ever-altering song, 

As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and 
falling, flooding the night, 

Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warn- 
ing, and yet again bursting with joy, 

Covering the earth and rilling the spread of the 
heaven, 

As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from 
recesses, 

Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shap'd leaves, 

I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, re- 
turning with spring. 

I cease from my song for thee, 

From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the 

west, communing with thee, 
O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night. 



Uttglg-jErfrflgg 29i 



Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the 

night, 
The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown 

bird, 
And the tallying-chant, the echo arous'd in my soul, 
With the lustrous and drooping star with the 

countenance full of woe, 
With the holders holding my hand nearing the call 

of the bird, 
Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory 

ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well, 
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and 

lands — and this for his dear sake, 
Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my 

soul, 
There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and 

dim. 

Walt Whitman. 



O CAPTAIN ! MY CAPTAIN ! 
[Abraham Lincoln, died April 15, 1865.] 

O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done ; 
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we 

sought is won ; 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all 

exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim 
and daring : 

But O heart ! heart ! heart ! 
O the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead ! 

O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 
Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the 
bugle trills ; 



292 Uugb-lErljOtts 



For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you 

the shores a-crowding ; 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager 
faces turning ; 

Here Captain ! dear father ! 
This arm beneath your head ; 
It is some dream that on the deck 
You've fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and 

still ; 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse 

nor will : 
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage 

closed and done ; 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with ob- 
ject won : 

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells ! 
But I, with mournful tread, 
Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

Walt Whitman. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

[Summer, 1865.] 

Dead is the roll of the drums, 
And the distant thunders die, 
They fade in the far-off sky ; 

And a lovely summer comes, 
Like the smile of Him on high. 

Lulled the storm and the onset ; 

Earth lies in a sunny swoon ; 

Stiller splendor of noon, 
Softer glory of sunset, 

Milder starlight and moon ! 



Vtttijh-IZttfM* 293 



For the kindly Seasons love us ; 

They smile over trench and clod, 
(Where we left the bravest of us,) — 

There's a brighter green of the sod, 
And a holier calm above us 

In the blessed Blue of God. 

The roar and ravage were vain ; 

And Nature, that never yields, 
Is busy with sun and rain 
At her old sweet work again 

On the lonely battle-fields. 

How the tall white daisies grow 
Where the grim artillery rolled ! 

(Was it only a moon ago ? 
It seems a century old,) — 

And the bee hums in the clover, 
As the pleasant June comes on ; 

Aye, the wars are all over, — 
But our good Father is gone. 

There was tumbling of traitor fort, 
Flaming of traitor fleet, — 

Lighting of city and port, 

Clasping in square and street. 

There was thunder of mine and gun, 

Cheering by mast and tent, — 
When — his dread work all done, 
And his high fame full won — 
Died the good President. 

In his quiet chair he sate, 

Pure of malice or guile, 
Stainless of fear or hate, — 

And there played a pleasant smile 
On the rough and careworn face ; 

For his heart was all the while 
On means of mercy and grace. 



294 ISttglg-JErflflgfl 



The brave old Flag drooped o'er him, 
(A fold in the hard hand lay,) — 
He looked, perchance, on the play, — 

But the scene was a shadow before him, 
For his thoughts were far away. 

'Twas but the morn , (yon fearful 

Death-shade, gloomy and vast, 

Lifting slowly at last,) 

His household heard him say, 
" Tis long since I've been so cheerful, 

So light of heart as to-day." 

'Twas dying, the long dread clang, — 

But, or ever the blessed ray 

Of peace could brighten to-day, 

Murder stood by the way,— 
Treason struck home his fang ! 
One throb — and, without a pang, 

That pure soul passed away. 
* * * * 

Kindly Spirit ! — Ah, when did treason 

Bid such a generous nature cease, 
Mild by temper and strong by reason, 

But ever leaning to love and peace ? 

A head how sober ! a heart how spacious ! 

A manner equal with high or low ; 
Rough, but gentle ; uncouth, but gracious ; 

And still inclining to lips of woe. 

Patient when saddest, calm when sternest, 
Grieved when rigid for justice' sake ; 

Given to jest, yet ever in earnest, 

If aught of right or truth were at stake. 

Simple of heart, yet shrewd therewith ; 

Slow to resolve, but firm to hold ; 
Still with parable and with myth 

Seasoning truth, like Them of old ; 



Hitgie-iErljflWi 235 



Aptest humor and quaintest pith ! 
(Still we smile o'er the tales he told.) 

Yet whoso might pierce the guise 
Of mirth in the man we mourn 

Would mark, and with grieved surprise, 
All the great soul had borne, 

In the piteous lines, and the kind, sad eyes 
So dreadfully wearied and worn. 



The Land's great lamentations, 
The mighty mourning of cannon, 
The myriad flags half-mast, — 
The late remorse of the nations, 
Grief from Volga to Shannon ! 
(Now they know thee at last.) 

How, from gray Niagara's shore 
To Canaveral's surfy shoal, — 

From the rough Atlantic roar 
To the long Pacific roll, — 
For bereavement and for dole, 

Every cottage wears its weed, 
White as thine own pure soul, 

And black as the traitor deed ! 

How, under a nation's pall, 
The dust so dear in our sight 

To its home on the prairie passed, 
The leagues of funeral, 

The myriads, morn and night, 
Pressing to look their last ! 

Nor alone the State's Eclipse; 

But how tears in hard eyes gather,— 
And on rough and bearded lips, 
Of the regiments and the ships, — 

" Oh, our dear Father !" 



29B Hmjlr-l:rfy0*0 



And methinks of all the million 

That looked on the dark dead face, 
'Neath its sable-plumed pavilion, 

The crone of a humbler race 
Is saddest of all to think on, 

And the old swart lips that said, 
Sobbing, " Abraham Lincoln ! 

Oh, he is dead, he is dead !" 

Hush ! let our heavy souls 

To-day be glad ; for agen 
The stormy music swells and rolls 

Stirring the hearts of men. 

And under the Nation's Dome, 
They've guarded so well and long, 

Our boys come marching home, 
Two hundred thousand strong. 

All in the pleasant month of May, 
With war-worn colors and drums, 

Still, through the livelong summer's day, 
Regiment, regiment comes. 



Like the tide, yesty and barmy, 
That sets on a wild lee-shore, 

Surge the ranks of an army 
Never reviewed before ! 

Who shall look on the like agen, 
Or see such host of the brave ? 
A mighty River of marching men 
Rolls the Capital through — 
Rank on rank, and wave on wave, 
Of bayonet-crested blue ! 

How the chargers neigh and champs 
(Their riders weary of camp,) 

With curvet and with caracole ! — 
The cavalry comes with thundrous tramp, 

And the cannons heavily roll. 



Sugl^-fErfprcn 29? 



And ever, flowery and gay, 
The Staff sweeps on in a spray 

Of tossing forelocks and manes ; 
But each bridle-arm has a weed 
Of funeral, black as the steed 

That fiery Sheridan reins. 

Grandest of mortal sights 

The sun-browned ranks to view, — 
The Colors ragg'd in a hundred fights, 

And the dusty Frocks of Blue ! 

And all day, mile on mile, 

With cheer, and waving, and smile, 

The war-worn legions defile 

Where the nation's noblest stand ; 
And the Great Lieutenant looks on, 

With the Flower of a rescued Land, 
For the terrible work is done, 
And the Good Fight is won 

For God and for Fatherland. 

So, from the fields they win, 
Our men are marching home, 
A million are marching home ! 

To the cannon's thundering din, 
And banners on mast and dome, — 

And the ships come sailing in 
With all their ensigns dight, 
As erst for a great sea-fight. 

Let every color fly, 

Every pennon flaunt in pride ; 
Wave, Starry Flag, on high ! 
Float in the sunny sky, 

Stream o'er the stormy tide ! 
For every stripe of stainless hue, 
And every star in the field of blue, 
Ten thousand of the brave and true 

Have laid them down and died. 



29H Utt0i?~3Erfj0?i0i 



And in all our pride to-day 
We think, with a tender pain, 

Of those so far away, 

They will not come home again. 

And our boys had fondly thought, 

To-day, in marching by, 
From the ground so dearly bought, 
And the fields so bravely fought, 

To have met their Father's eye. 

But they may not see him in place, 
Nor their ranks be seen of him ; 

We look for the well-known face. 
And the splendor is strangely dim. 

Perished ? — who was it said 
Our Leader had passed away ? 

Dead ? Our President dead ? — 
He has not died for a day ! 

We mourn for a little breath, 

Such as, late or soon, dust yields ; 

But the Dark Flower of Death 
Blooms in the fadeless fields. 

We looked on a cold, still brow : 
But Lincoln could yet survive ; 
He never was more alive, 

Never nearer than now. 

For the pleasant season found him, 
Guarded by faithful hands, 
In the fairest of Summer Lands : 

With his own brave Staff around him, — 
There our President stands. 

There they are all at his side, 
The noble hearts and true, 
That did all men might do, — 

Then slept, with their swords, and died. 



ISttgk-lxrljnfla 299 



Of little the storm has reft us 
But the brave and kindly clay, 

('Tis but dust where Lander left us, 
And but turf where Lyon lay.) 

There's Winthrop, true to the end, 
And Ellsworth of long ago, 
(First fair young head laid low !) 

There's Baker, the brave old friend, 
And Douglas, the friendly foe : 

(Baker, that still stood up 

When 'twas death on either hand : 
" 'Tis a soldier's part to stoop, 

But the Senator must stand.") 

The heroes gather and form : — 
There's Cameron, with his scars, 

Sedgwick, of siege and storm, 

And Mitchell, that joined his stars. 

Winthrop, of sword and pen, 
Wadsworth, with silver hair, 

Mansfield, ruler of men, 

And brave McPherson are there. 

Birney, who led so long, 
Abbott, born to command, 

Elliott the bold, and Strong, 

Who fell on the hard-fought strand. 

Lytle, soldier and bard, 

And the Ellets, sire and son, 
Ransom, all grandly scarred, 
And Redfield, no more on guard, 
(But Alatoona is won !) 

Reno, of pure desert, 

Kearney, with heart of flame, 
And Russell, that hid his hurt 

Till the final death-bolt came. 



3nn lttglg-i:rl|flga 



Terrill, dead where he fought, 

Wallace, that would not yield, 
And Sumner, who vainly sought 

A grave on the foughten field, 

(But died ere the end he saw, 
With years and battles outworn.) 

There's Harmon of Kenesaw, 

And Ulric Dahlgren, and Shaw, 
That slept with his Hope Forlorn. 

Bayard, that knew not fear, 

(True as the knight of yore,) 
And Putnam, and Paul Revere, 

Worthy the names they bore. 

Allen, who died for others, 

Bryan, of gentle fame, 
And the brave New-England brothers 

That have left us Lowell's name. 

Home, at last, from the wars, — 
Stedman, the staunch and mild, 
And Janeway, our hero-child, 

Home, with his fifteen scars ! 

There's Porter, ever in front, 

True son of a sea-king sire, 
And Christian Foote, and Dupont, 
(Dupont, who led his ships 
Rounding the first Ellipse 

Of thunder and of fire.) 

There's Ward, with his brave death-wounds, 
And Cummings, of spotless name, 

And Smith, who hurtled his rounds 
When deck and hatch were aflame ; 

Wainwright, steadfast and true, 
Rodgers, of brave sea-blood, 



Sugle-IErljfleH 30i 



And Craven, with ship and crew 
Sunk in the salt sea flood. 

And, a little later to part, 

Our Captain, noble and dear — 
(Did they deem thee, then, austere ? 

Drayton ! — O pure and kindly heart ! 
Thine is the seaman's tear.) 

All such, — and many another, 
(Ah, list how long to name !) 

That stood like brother by brother, 
And died on the field of fame. 

And around — (for there can cease 
This earthly trouble ) — they throng, 

The friends that had passed in peace, 
The foes that have seen their wrong. 

(But, a little from the rest, 
With sad eyes looking down, 
And brows of softened frown, 
With stern arms on the chest, 
Are two, standing abreast, — 
Stonewall and Old John Brown.) 

But the stainless and the true, 
These by their President stand, 

To look on his last review, 

Or march with the old command. 

And lo, from a thousand fields, 
From all the old battle-haunts, 

A greater Army than Sherman wields, 
A grander Review than Grant's ! 

Gathered home from the grave, 
Risen from sun and rain, — 

Rescued from wind and wave, 
Out of the stormy main,— 



3n2 Ihtgfc-iErlnttB 



The Legions of our Brave 
Are all in their lines again ! 

Many a stout Corps that went, 
Full-ranked, from camp and tent, 

And brought back a brigade ; 
Many a brave regiment, 

That mustered only a squad. 

The lost battalions, 

That, when the fight went wrong, 
Stood and died at their guns, — 

The stormers steady and strong, 

With their best blood that bought 
Scarp, and ravelin, and wall — 

The companies that fought 
Till a corporal's guard was all. 

Many a valiant crew, 

That passed in battle and wreck, — 
Ah, so faithful and true ! 

They died on the bloody deck, 
They sank in the soundless blue. 

All the loyal and bold 

That lay on a soldier's bier, — 
The stretchers borne to the rear, 

The hammocks lowered to the hold. 

The shattered wreck we hurried, 
In death-fight, from deck and port,- 

The Blacks that Wagner buried, 
That died in the Bloody Fort ! 

Comrades of camp and mess, 

Left, as they lay, to die, 
In the battle's sorest stress, 

When the storm of fight swept by : 
They lay in the Wilderness — 

Ah, where did they not lie ? 



18it0l?-?ErIj0£0 ana 



In the tangled swamp they lay, 

They lay so still on the sward ! — 
They rolled in the sick-bay, 
Moaning their lives away ; — 

They flushed in the fevered ward. 

They rotted in Libby yonder, 

They starved in the foul stockade,— 

Hearing afar the thunder 
Of the Union cannonade ! 

But the old wounds all are healed, 
And the dungeoned limbs are free,- 

The Blue Frocks rise from the field, 
The Blue Jackets out of the sea. 

They've 'scaped from the torture-den, 
They've broken the bloody sod, 

They're all come to life agen ! — 

The Third of a Million men 

That died for Thee and for God ! 

A tenderer green than May 
The Eternal Season wears, — 

The blue of our summer's day 
Is dim and pallid to theirs, — 

The Horror faded away, 

And 'twas heaven all unawares ! 

Tents on the Infinite Shore ! 

Flags in the azuline sky, 
Sails on the seas once more ! 

To-day, in the heaven on high, 
All under arms once more ! 

The troops are all in their lines, 
The guidons flutter and play : 

But every bayonet shines, 
For all must march to-day. 



304 SlS9l*-&IpI*0 



What lofty pennons flaunt ? 
What mighty echoes haunt, 

As of great guns, o'er the main? 

Hark to the sound again ! 
The Congress is all-ataunt ! 

The Cumberland's manned again ! 

All the ships and their men 
Are in line of battle to-day, — 

All at quarters, as when 

Their last roll thundered away,— 

All at their guns, as then, 

• For the Fleet salutes to-day. 

The armies have broken camp 
On the vast and sunny plain, 
The drums are rolling again; 

With steady, measured tramp, 
They're marching all again. 

With alignment firm and solemn, 

Once again they form 
In mighty square and column, — 

But never for charge and storm. 

The Old Flag they died under 
Floats above them on the shore, 

And on the great ships yonder 
The ensigns dip once more, — 

And once again the thunder 
Of the thirty guns and four ! 

In solid platoons of steel, 

Under heaven's triumphal arch, 

The long lines break and wheel ; 
And the word is, " Forward, march 

The colors ripple o'erhead, 
The drums roll up to the sky, 



2!ttgl?-&Ijffl?0 3ns 



And with martial time and tread 

The regiments all pass by, — 
The Ranks of our faithful Dead, 

Meeting their President's eye. 

With a soldier's quiet pride 

They smile o'er the perished pain, 
For their anguish was not vain, — 

For thee, O Father, we died ! 
And we did not die in vain. 

March on, your last brave mile ! 

Salute him, Star and Lace, 
Form round him, rank and file, 

And look on the kind, rough face ; 
But the quaint and homely smile 

Has a glory and a grace 
It never had known erewhile, — 

Never, in time and space. 

Close round him, hearts of pride ! 
Press near him, side by side, — 

Our Father is not alone ! 
For the Holy Right ye died, 
And Christ, the Crucified, 

Waits to welcome his own. 

Henry Howard Brownell. 



PROMETHEUS VINCTUS. 

[ Written while Jefferson Davis was a prisoner in 
Fortress Monroe, where he was confined for two years 
after the downfall of the Confederacy.} 

Prometheus on the cold rock bound, 

The vulture at his heart, 
In you, O Southern Chief, has found 

A fitting counterpart. 



3fle Sugfc-iErljflra 



The Titan by his wondrous skill 

Fashioned a man from clay ; 
You formed a nation at your will, 

And bent it to your sway. 

He made a dull insensate thing, 

A form without a soul ; 
Your spirit, with life's stirring spring. 

Electrified the whole. 

Like him, your greatness did you wrong, 

Your virtue was your bane ; 
Each soared above the common throng, 

Each found a prison chain ! 

Your aims alike were noble ; well 

Ye battled, till at length 
Each, having done his utmost, fell — 

Dragged down by Force and Strength ! 

Ye fell, but gained a height sublime, 

And more than mortal fame, 
Binding upon the breast of Time 

An ever glorious name. 

No farther may the semblance go. 

O'erwhelmed by Zeus' frown, 
Prometheus with supernal woe 

In agony bowed down : 

While you, O gentle sufferer, feel, 
Though bending 'neath the rod, 

A holy joy, the sign and seal 
Of a sustaining God ! 

Within your grated prison cell 

A gracious guest abides, 
And by the same low-spoken spell 

Which stilled the raging tides 



Sitgk-l:rlj0*0 anr 



Of fierce Tiberias, he exerts 
A spirit-soothing calm, 
And heals the sting of earthly hurts 
With heavenly peace and balm. 

Around you in unending play 

The bounding billows roar, 
And white with crests of seething spray 

Break thundering on the shore. 

These ocean-surges well express 

The love, the hopes, the care, 
Which to you in your loneliness 

Your faithful people bear. 

Chains and a prison cannot wrest 

Your empire from its throne ; 
You find in every Southern breast 

A kingdom and a home ! 

The stately land you strove to save, 

In sable robes arrayed, 
Majestic mourns beside the grave 

Where all her hopes are laid. 

But though she weeps her cherished dead 

With sorrow deep and true, 
No tears of bitterness are shed 

Like those that fall for you ! 

You hold her heart-strings in your hand, 

And every blow and slur 
That strikes you as you helpless stand 

Falls doubly hard on her ! 

Heaven help us all ! The New Year dawns 

Again with gladsome birth ; 
God grant, ere many smiling morns 

Have glorified the earth, 



sua Sugb-iErljflfla 



That one may break amid the stars, 

Which, by His blest decree, 
Beaming across your prison bars, 

Shall shine upon you free ! 

Fanny Downing. 



"GONE FORWARD." 

[General Robert E. Lee died October 12, 1870. His last 
words were : " Let the tent be struck /"] 

Yes, " Let the tent be struck": Victorious morning 
Through every crevice flashes in a day 

Magnificent beyond all earth's adorning : 

The night is over ; wherefore should he stay ? 

And wherefore should our voices choke to say, 

" The General has gone forward !" 

Life's foughten field not once beheld surrender. 

But with superb endurance, present, past, 
Our pure Commander, lofty, simple, tender, 

Through good, through ill, held his high purpose 

fast, 
Wearing his armor spotless, —till at last 
Death gave the final " Forward !" 

All hearts grew sudden palsied : Yet what said he, 
Thus summoned ? — " Let the tent be struck !" — 
For when 
Did call of duty fail to find him ready 
Nobly to do his work in sight of men, 
For God's and for his country's sake — and then 
To watch, wait, or go forward ? 

We will not weep, — we dare not ! — Such a story 
As his large life writes on the century's years 

Should crowd our bosoms with a flush of glory, 
That manhood's type, supremest that appears 
To-day, he shows the ages. Nay, no tears 
Because he has gone forward ! 



Hu0M:rfj0?0 ana 



Gone forward ? — Whither ?— Where the marshalled 
legions, 
Christ's well-worn soldiers, from their conflicts 
cease, — 
Where Faith's true Red-Cross Knights repose in 
regions 
Thick studded with the calm white tents of 

peace, — 
Thither, right joyful to accept release, 
The General has gone forward ! 

Margaret J. Preston. 



VANQUISHED. 
[General U. S. Grant, died July 23, 1885.] 



NOT by the ball or brand 
Sped by a mortal hand, 
Not by the lightning-stroke 
When fiery tempests broke, — 
Not mid the ranks of war 
Fell the great Conqueror. 

II. 

Unmoved, undismayed, 

In the crash and carnage of the cannonade, — 

Eye that dimmed not, hand that failed not, 

Brain that swerved not, heart that quailed not, 

Steel nerve, iron form, — 

The dauntless spirit that o'erruled the storm. 

III. 
While the Hero peaceful slept 
A foeman to his chamber crept, 
Lightly to the slumberer came, 
Touched his brow and breathed his name : 



310 Ittgk-IErffOtt! 



O'er the stricken form there passed 
Suddenly an icy blast. 

IV. 
The Hero woke : rose undismayed : 
Saluted Death — and sheathed his blade. 

v. 
The Conqueror of a hundred fields 
To a mightier Conqueror yields ; 
No mortal foeman's blow 
Laid the great Soldier low ; 
Victor in his latest breath — 
Vanquished but by Death. 

Francis F. Browne. 



SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY. 

I read last night of the Grand Review 

In Washington's chiefest avenue — 
Two Hundred Thousand men in blue, 

I think they said was the number, — 
Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet, 
The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat, 
The clatter of hoofs in the stony street, 
The cheers of people who came to greet, 
And the thousand details that to repeat 

Would only my verse encumber, — 
Till I fell in a revery, sad and sweet, 

And then to a fitful slumber. 

When, lo ! in a vision I seemed to stand 
In the lonely Capitol. On each hand 
Far stretched the portico ; dim and grand 
Its columns ranged, like a martial band 
Of sheeted spectres whom some command 
Had called to a last reviewing. 



!ugk-1Erfj0£H 3U 



And the streets of the city were white and bare, 
No footfall echoed across the square; 
But out of the misty midnight air 
I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, 
And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear 
The sound of a far tattooing. 

Then I held my breath with fear and dread ; 
For into the square, with a brazen tread, 
There rode a figure whose stately head 

O'erlooked the review that morning, 
That never bowed from its firm-set seat 
When the living column passed its feet, 
Yet now rode steadily up the street 

To the phantom bugle's warning : 

Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, 
And there in the moonlight stood revealed 
A well-known form that in state and field 

Had led our patriot sires ; 
Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp, 
Afar through the river's fog and damp, 
That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp, 

Nor wasted bivouac fires. 

And I saw a phantom army come, 
With never a sound of fife or drum, 
But keeping time to a throbbing hum 

Of wailing and lamentation : 
The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, 
Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, 
The men whose wasted figures fill 

The patriot graves of the nation. 

And there came the nameless dead, — the men 
Who perished in fever-swamp and fen, 
The slowly-starved of the prison-pen ; 
And, marching beside the others, 
Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight, 
With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright : 



n2 Sugfc-IErfjoes 



I thought — perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight — 
They looked as white as their brothers ! 

And so all night marched the Nation's dead, 
With never a banner above them spread, 
Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished ; 
No mark — save the bare uncovered head 

Of the silent bronze Reviewer ; 
With never an arch save the vaulted sky ; 
With never a flower save those that lie 
On the distant graves — for love could buy 

No gift that was purer or truer. 

So all night long swept the strange array ; 
So all night long, till the morning gray, 
I watch 'd for one who had passed away, 

With a reverent awe and wonder, — 
Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line, 
And I knew that one who was kin of mine 
Had come ; and I spake — and lo ! that sign 

Awakened me from my slumber. 

Bret Harte. 



COMRADES KNOWN IN MARCHES MANY. 

Comrades known in marches many, 
Comrades tried in dangers many, 
Comrades bound by memories many, 

Brothers ever let us be. 
Wounds or sickness may divide us, 
Marching orders may divide us, 
But whatever fate betide us, 

Brothers of the heart are we. 

Comrades known by faith the clearest, 
Tried when death was near and nearest, 
Bound we are by ties the dearest, 
Brothers evermore to be. 



SttJjle-IErfaaBi 313 



And, if spared, and growing older, 
Shoulder still in line with shoulder, 
And with hearts no thrill the colder, 
Brothers ever we shall be. 

By communion of the banner, — 
Crimson, white, and starry banner, — 
By the baptism of the banner, 

Children of one Church are we. 
Creed nor faction can divide us, 
Race nor language can divide us ; 
Still, whatever fate betide us, 

Children of the Flag are we. 

Charles G. Halpine. 



IN MEMORY. 

Old Greece hath her Thermopylae, 

Brave Switzerland her Tell, 
The Scot his Wallace heart, and we 

Heroic souls as well. 
The graves of glorious Marathon 

Are green above the dead ; 
And we have royal fields whereon 

The trampled grass is red. 

Oh, not alone the hoary Past 

Spilled precious princely blood ; 
Oh, not alone its sons were cast 

In knightly form and mood ; 
Perennial smells of sacrifice 

Make sweet our sickened air ; 
And troth, as leal as Sidney's, lies 

Around us everywhere. 

Swords tried as that Excalibur 
Which graced King Arthur's thigh, 



314 1§Wjfr-l:rfj0£B 



What time our battle instincts stir, 

Flash bare beneath the sky. 
We feel the rowels of Honor prick 

As keenly as did he 
Who sowed his savage epoch thick 

With perfect chivalry. 

Cceur-de-Leons on every field, 

Sweet saints in every home, 
Through whose dear helping stands revealed 

The joy of martyrdom ; 
Compassed by whose assuring loves, 

Our comrades dared and died 
As blithely as a bridegroom moves 

To meet his waiting bride. 

Though tears be salt, and wormwood still 

Is bitter to the taste, 
God's heart is tender, and He will 

Let no life fail or waste. 
O mothers of our Gracchi ! when 

You gave your jewels up, 
A continent of hopeless men 

Grew rich in boundless hope. 

Renown stands mute beside the graves 

With which the land is scarred ; 
Unheralded, our splendid braves 

Went forth unto the Lord : 
No poet hoards their humble names 

In his immortal scrolls, 
But not the less the darkness flames 

With their clear-shining souls. 

Beneath the outward havoc, they 

The inward mercy saw ; 
High intuitions of Duty lay 

Upon them, strong as law ; 
Athwart the bloody horizon 

They marked God's blazing sword, 



Uttgle-lxrfjflttai 315 



And heard His dreadful thunders run 
When but the cannon roared. 

Shield-bearers of the Sovran Truth ! 

We count your costly deeds 
Devoutly as a maiden doth 

Her consecrated beads. 
You thrill us with the calms which flow 

In Eucharistic wine ; 
And by your straight tall lives we know 

That Life is still divine. 

Richard Realf. 



A DIRGE. 

Low lies in dust the honored head, 
Cold is the hand that held the sword ; 

Slowly we bear them to the dead, 
And lay them down without a word. 

What is there to be said or done ? 

They are departed, we remain ; 
Their race is run, their crowns are won, 

They will not come to us again. 

Cut off by fate before their prime 
Could harvest half the golden years, 

All they could leave they left us — time, 
All we could give we gave them — tears. 

Would they were here, or we were there, 
Or both together, heart to heart. 

O death in life, we cannot bear 
To be so near — and so apart ! 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 



316 jfaglg-SrfjQgg 

LINES FROM "COMMEMORATION ODE." 
[Recited at the Harvard Commemoration , July 21, 1865.] 

We sit here in the Promised Land 
That flows with Freedom's honey and milk ; 
But 'twas they won it, sword in hand, 
Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk. 
We welcome back our bravest and our best ; — 
Ah me ! not all ! some come not with the rest, 
Who went forth brave and bright as any here ! 
I strive to mix some gladness with my strain. 

But the sad strings complain, 

And will not please the ear : 
I sweep them for a paean, but they wane 

Again and yet again 
Into a dirge, and die away in pain. 
In these brave ranks I only see the gaps, 
Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps, 
Dark to the triumph which they died to gain : 
Fitlier may others greet the living, 
For me the past is unforgiving ; 

I with uncovered head 

Salute the sacred dead, 
Who went, and who return not. — Say not so ! 
'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay, 
But the high faith that failed not by the way ; 
Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave ; 
No bar of endless night exiles the brave ; 

And to the saner mind 
We rather seem the dead that stayed behind. 
Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow ! 
For never shall their aureoled presence lack : 
I see them muster in a gleaming row, 
With ever-youthful brows that nobler show ; 
We find in our dull road their shining track ; 

In every nobler mood 
We feel the orient of their spirit glow, 
Part of our life's unalterable good, 
Of all our saintlier aspiration ; 



lhigl*-?Erfpit0 air 



They come transfigured back, 
Secure from change in their high-hearted ways, 
Beautiful evermore, and with the rays 
Of morn on their white Shields of Expectation ! 



Not in anger, not in pride, 

Pure from passion's mixture rude 

Ever to base earth allied, 

But with far-heard gratitude, 

Still with heart and voice renewed, 
To heroes living and dear martyrs dead, 
The strain should close that consecrates our brave. 
Lift the heart and lift the head ! 

Lofty be its mood and grave, 

Not without a martial ring, 

Not without a prouder tread 

And a peal of exultation : 

Little right has he to sing 

Through whose heart in such an hour 

Beats no march of conscious power, 

Sweeps no tumult of elation ! 

'Tis no Man we celebrate, 

By his country's victories great, 
A hero half and half the whim of Fate, 

But the pith and marrow of a Nation 

Drawing force from all her men, 

Highest, humblest, weakest, all, 

For her time of need, and then 

Pulsing it again through them, 
Till the basest can no longer cower, 
Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall, 
Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem. 
Come back, then, noble pride, for 'tis her dower ! 

How could poet ever tower, 

If his passions, hopes, and fears, 

If his triumphs and his tears, 

Kept not measure with his people ? 
Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves ! 



3*a ?Bttjgl£~3;rlj0£0 



Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple ! 
Banners, advance with triumph, bend your staves ! 
And from every mountain-peak 
Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak, 
Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he, 
And so leap on in light from sea to sea, 
Till the glad news be sent 
Across a kindling continent, 
Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver : 
" Be proud ! for she is saved, and all have helped to 
save her ! 
She that lifts up the manhood of the poor, 
She of the open soul and open door, 
With room about her hearth for all mankind ! 
The fire is dreadful in her eyes no more ; 
From her bold front the helm she doth unbind, 
Sends all her handmaid armies back to spin, 
And bids her navies, that so lately hurled 
Their crashing battle, hold their thunders in, 
Swimming like birds of calm along the unharm- 

ful shore. 
No challenge sends she to the elder world, 
That looked askance and hated ; a light scorn 
Plays o'er her mouth, as round her mighty knees 
She calls her children back, and waits the morn 
Of nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas." 

Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release ! 
Thy God, in these distempered days. 
Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways, 
And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace ! 

Bow down in prayer and praise ! 
No poorest in thy borders but may now 
Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised brow. 
O Beautiful ! my Country ! ours once more ! 
Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair 
O'er such sweet brows as never other wore, 

And letting thy set lips, 

Freed from wrath's pale eclipse, 



Ittglg-fofrflgfl 3i9 



The rosy edges of their smile lay bare, 
What words divine of lover or of poet 
Could tell our love and make thee know it, 
Among the Nations bright beyond compare ? 

What were our lives without thee ? 

What all our lives to save thee ? 

We reck not what we gave thee ; 

We will not dare to doubt thee, 
But ask whatever else, and we will dare ! 

James Russell Lowell. 



HEROES OF THE SOUTH. 

[From an Ode on the Valor and Sufferings of Con- 
federate Soldiers.'] 

Four deadly years we fought, 
Ringed by a girdle of unfaltering fire 
That coiled and hissed in lessening circles nigher. 

Blood dyed the Southern wave ; 
From ocean border to calm inland river, 
There was no pause, no peace, no respite ever. 

Blood of our bravest brave 
Drenched in a scarlet rain the western lea, 
Swelled the hoarse waters of the Tennessee, 
Incarnadined the gulfs, the lakes, the rills, 

And from a hundred hills 
Steamed in a mist of slaughter to the skies, 
Shutting all hope of heaven from mortal eyes. 
The Beaufort blooms were wither'd on the stem ; 

The fair Gulf City in a single night 

Lost her imperial diadem ; 
And wheresoe'er men's troubled vision roamed 
They viewed might towering o'er the humbled crest 
of RIGHT ! 



32n litgfc-IErljnaa 



But for a time, but for a time, God ! 
The innate forces of our knightly blood 
Rallied, and by the mount, the fen, the flood, 

Upraised the tottering standards of our race. 
O grand Virginia ! though thy glittering glaive 
Lies sullied, shattered in a ruthless grave, 

How it flashed once ! 

They dug their trenches deep 
(The implacable foe), they ranged their lines of 

wrath ; 
But watchful ever on the imminent path 

Thy steel-clad genius stood ; 
North, South, East, West, — they strove to pierce thy 
shield : 

Thou wouldst not yield! 
Until — unconquered, yea, unconquered still — 
Nature's weakened forces answered not thy will, 
And gored with wound on wound, 
Thy fainting limbs and forehead sought the ground ; 
And with thee, the young nation fell, a pall 
Solemn and rayless, covering one and all ! 

God's ways are marvellous ; here we stand to-day 
Discrown'd, and shorn in wildest disarray, 
The mock of earth ! yet never shone the sun 
On sterner deeds, or nobler victories won. 
Not in the field alone ; ah, come with me 
To the dim bivouac by the winter's sea ; 
Mark the fair sons of courtly mothers crouch 

O'er flickering fires ; but gallant still, and gay 
As on some bright parade. Or mark the couch 

In reeking hospitals, whereon is laid 
The latest scion of a line perchance 
Whose veins were royal. Close your blurred 

romance, 
Blurred by the dropping of a maudlin tear, 
And watch the manhood here ; 

That firm but delicate countenance, 
Distorted sometimes by an awful pang, 



Itogb-IErljoeii 32i 



Borne in meek patience. When the trumpets rang 
" To horse /" but yester-morn, that ardent boy 
Sprung to his charger, thrilled with hope and joy 
To the very finger-tips ; and now he lies, 
The shadows deepening in those falcon eyes, 

But calm and undismayed 
As if the Death that chills him, brow and breast, 
Were some fond bride who whispered, " Let us 
rest !" 

Enough ! 'tis over ! the last gleam of hope 
Hath melted from our mournful horoscope — 

Of all, of all Dereft ; 

Only to us are left 
Our buried heroes and their matchless deeds. 
These cannot pass ; they hold the vital seeds 
Which in some far, untracked, unvisioned hour 
May burst to vivid bud and glorious flower. 

Meanwhile, upon the nation's broken heart 
Her martyrs sleep. Oh, dearer far to her 
Than if each son, a wreathed conqueror, 

Rode in triumphant state 

The loftiest crest of fate ; 
Oh, dearer far, because outcast and low, 
She yearns above them in her awful woe. 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 



HYMN FOR MEMORIAL-DAY. 
[Magnolia Cemetery \ Charleston, S. C] 

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves- 
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ! 

Though yet no marble column craves 
The pilgrim here to pause, 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 
The blossom of your fame is blown, 



322 Sttgl*-&lp!*0 



And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
The shaft is in the stone ! 

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 
Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 

Behold ! your sisters bring - their tears 
And these memorial blooms. 

Small tributes ! but your shades will smile 
More proudly on these wreaths to-day 

Than when some cannon-moulded pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies 

By mourning beauty crowned. 

Henry Timrod. 



ODE FOR DECORATION-DAY. 

Bring flowers to strew again 

With fragrant purple rain 

Of lilacs, and of roses white and red, 

The dwellings of our dead, our glorious dead ! 

Let the bells ring a solemn funeral chime, 

And wild war-music bring anew the time 

When they who sleep beneath 

Were full of vigorous breath, 
And in their lusty manhood sallied forth, 

Holding in strong right hand 

The fortunes of the land, 
The pride and power and safety of the North ! 
It seems but yesterday 
The long and proud array — 
But yesterday when even the solid rock 
Shook as with earthquake shock, — 
As North and South, like two huge icebergs, ground 



Against each other with convulsive bound, 
And the whole world stood still 

To view the mighty war, 

And hear the thundrous roar, 
While sheeted lightnings wrapped each plain and hill. 

Alas ! how few came back 

From battle and from wrack I 

Alas ! how many lie 

Beneath a Southern sky, 

Who never heard the fearful fight was done, 

And all they fought for won. 

Sweeter, I think, their sleep, 

More peaceful and more deep, 

Could they but know their wounds were not in vain, 

Could they but hear the grand triumphal strain, 

And see their homes unmarred by hostile tread. 

Ah ! let us trust it is so with our dead — 

That they the thrilling joy of triumph feel, 

And in that joy disdain the foeman's steel. 

We mourn for all, but each doth think of one 

More precious to the heart than aught beside — 
Some father, brother, husband, or some son 

Who came not back, or coming, sank and died : 

In him the whole sad list is glorified ! 
" He fell 'fore Richmond, in the seven long days 

When battle raged from morn till blood-dewed eve, 
And lies there," one pale widowed mourner says, 

And knows not most to triumph or to grieve. 
" My boy fell at Fair Oaks," another sighs; 
" And mine at Gettysburg !" his neighbor cries, 

And that great name each sad-eyed listener 
thrills. 
I think of one who vanished when the press 
Of battle surged along the Wilderness, 

And mourned the North upon her thousand hills. 

O gallant brothers of the generous South, 
Foes for a day and brothers for all time ! 



324 SltgM;rfj0£0 



I charge you by the memories of our youth, 

By Yorktown's field and Montezuma's clime 
Hold our dead sacred — let them quietly rest 
In your unnumbered vales, where God thought best ! 
Your vines and flowers learned long since to forgive, 
And o'er their graves a 'broidered mantle weave ; 
Be you as kind as they are, and the word 
Shall reach the Northland with each summer bird, 
And thoughts as sweet as summer shall awake 
Responsive to your kindness, and shall make 
Our peace the peace of brothers once again, 
And banish utterly the days of pain. 

And ye, O Northmen ! be ye not outdone 

In generous thought and deed. 
We all do need forgiveness, every one ; 

And they that give shall find it in their need. 
Spare of your flowers to deck the stranger's grave, 

Who died for a lost cause : 
A soul more daring, resolute, and brave 

Ne'er won a world's applause ! 
(A brave man's hatred pauses at the tomb.) 
For him some Southern home was robed in gloom, 
Some wife or mother looked with longing eyes 
Through the sad days and nights with tears and 

sighs, — 
Hope slowly hardening into gaunt Despair. 
Then let your foeman's grave remembrance share ; 
Pity a higher charm to Valor lends, 
And in the realms of Sorrow all are friends. 

Yes, bring fresh flowers and strew the soldier's 
grave, 

Whether he proudly lies 

Beneath our Northern skies, 
Or where the Southern palms their branches wave 1 
Let the bells toll and wild war-music swell, 

And for one day the thought of all the past — 

Of all those memories vast — 



Iwgfr-iErilTOjs 325 



Come back and haunt us with its mighty spell ! 

Bring flowers, then, once again, 

And strew with fragrant rain 

Of lilacs, and of roses white and red, 

The dwellings of our dead. 

Henry Peterson. 



ODE FOR DECORATION-DAY. 

They sleep so calm and stately, 
Each in his graveyard bed, 

It scarcely seems that lately 
They trod the fields blood-red, 
With fearless tread. 

They marched and never halted, 
They scaled the parapet, 

The triple lines assaulted, 
And paid without regret 
The final debt. 

The debt of slow accruing 

A guilty nation made, 
The debt of evil-doing, 
Of justice long delayed, — 
'Twas this they paid. 

On fields where Strife held riot, 
And Slaughter fed his hounds, 

Where came no sense of quiet, 
Nor any gentle sounds, 

They made their rounds. 

They wrought without repining, 
Till, weary watches o'er, 

They passed the bounds confining 
Our green, familiar shore, 
Forevermore. 



32fi Hugte-iErffflfla 



And now they sleep so stately, 

Each in his graveyard bed, 
So calmly and sedately 

They rest, that once I said : 
" These men are dead. 

" They know not what sweet duty 

We come each year to pay, 
Nor heed the blooms of beauty, 

The garland gifts of May, 
Strewn here to-day. 

" The night-time and the day-time, 

The rise and set of sun, 
The winter and the May-time, 

To them whose work is done, 
Are all as one." 

Then o'er mine eyes there floated 

A vision of the Land 
Where their brave souls, promoted 

To Heaven's own armies, stand 
At God's right hand. 

From out the mighty distance 

I seemed to see them gaze 
Back on their old existence, 

Back on the battle-blaze 
Of war's dread days. 

" The flowers shall fade and perish," 

In larger faith spake I, 
" But these dear names we cherish 

Are written in the sky, 
And cannot die." 

Theodore P. Cook. 



•JUglg-IErfrflgfl 327 



THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 

[ This pcern is founded upon an incident that occurred at 
Columbus, Miss., on Memorial-Day, 1867, when flowers 
were strewn upon the graves of Confederate and Federal 
soldiers alike, ,] 

By the flow of the inland river, 

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
Asleep are the ranks of the dead ; 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 
Under the one, the Blue ; 
Under the other, the Gray. 

These, in the robings of glory, 

Those, in the gloom of defeat , 
All with the battle-blood gory, 
In the dusk of eternity meet ; 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 
Under the laurel, the Blue ; 
Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 

The desolate mourners go, 
Lovingly laden with flowers 

Alike for the friend and the foe ; 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the roses, the Blue ; 
Under the lilies, the Gray 

So, with an equal splendor, 

The morning sun-rays fall, 
With a touch impartially tender, 
On the blossoms blooming for all; 
Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment day ,♦ 



32H IBugU-iErljneH 



Broidered with gold, the Blue ; 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So, when the summer calleth, 
On forest and field of grain, 
With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain ; 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 
Wet with the rain, the Blue ; 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding 

The generous deed was done ; 
In the storm of the years that are fading, 
No braver battle was won ; 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 
Under the blossoms, the Blue ; 
Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No more shall the war-cry sever, 

Or the winding rivers be red ; 
They banish our anger forever, 

When they laurel the graves of our dead. 
Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment day ; 
)ve and tears for the Blue ; 
Tears and love for the Gray. 

Francis Miles Finch. 



THE TOURNAMENT. 
I. 

LISTS all white and blue in the skies; 

And the people hurried amain 
To the Tournament under the ladies' eyes 

Where jousted Heart and Brain. 



Itoglg-grfrpga 329 



ii. 

Blow, herald, blow ! There entered Heart, 

A youth in crimson and gold. 
Blow, herald, blow ! Brain stood apart, 

Steel-armored, glittering, cold. 

in. 

Heart's palfrey caracoled gayly round, 

Heart tra-li-raed merrily ; 
But Brain sat still, with never a sound — 

Full cynical-calm was he. 

IV. 

Heart's helmet-crest bore favors three 
From his lady's white hand caught ; 

Brain's casque was bare as Fact — not he 
Or favor gave or sought. 



Blow, herald, blow ! Heart shot a glance 

To catch his lady's eye ; 
But Brain looked straight a-front, his lance 

To aim more faithfully. 

VI. 

They charged, they struck ; both fell, both bled \ 

Brain rose again, ungloved ; 
Heart fainting smiled, and softly said, 

" My love to my Beloved !" 



Heart and Brain ! no more be twain ; 
Throb and think, one flesh again! 
Lot they weep, they turn, they run ; 
Lot they kiss ; Love, thou art one! 

Sidney Lanier. 



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